


when the rainwater comes

by nucodiangelo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Mutual Pining, Post-First Battle with Pennywise (IT), Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, sorry for how this is going to end lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nucodiangelo/pseuds/nucodiangelo
Summary: They all spend the first two weeks of August trying to put the pieces of themselves back together, trying to learn how to breathe easy again. Beverly is all averting glances and flinching shoulders; Mike is hollow eyes and restless feet; Eddie is night terrors and too many pills; Ben is breakdowns and too long between meals; Stan is shell shocked blank stares and shaking hands; Bill is all grief, a wound reopened after so many months of healing. It’s all worried parents, sleepless nights, tears and nightmares of bright lights and a red smile. So there really is no surprise they don’t notice much about Richie’s state until two weeks after Neibolt when Beverly suggests they meet up to talk about how they’re doing, and Richie doesn’t show.A fic about the Losers Club in the years '89-'94.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26





	1. 1989

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a product of the most intense hyper fixation I’ve had in years, and it turned out so much longer than ever planned. It’s heavily influenced by Taylor Swift’s albums folklore and evermore, Simon & Garfunkel’s album Bridge Over Troubled Water, and the song Twin Sized Mattress, obviously.  
> Thank you to my roommates who let me rant to them for hours about IT, this fic and Reddie in general. Thanks to William who always lets me read them what I’ve written, is always supportive, and helps me when I completely forget a word or a phrase. Thanks to Billie for being as much of a Richie stan as me and giving me someone to talk to about him and Eddie. Thanks to Solveig for caring even though she generally rarely has any idea about what I’m talking about, ever. You three are greater roommates, and friends, than I could have ever wished for.
> 
> Trigger warnings include: substance abuse (alcohol, illegal drugs and prescription drugs), mentions of abuse and molestation, emet, self-harm ideation, suicide ideation, homophobia, internalised homophobia etc. A longer more detailed list of the TW per chapter will be in the end notes of each update for anyone who might need it!
> 
> Title is from the song Twin Sized Mattress by the Front Bottoms.  
>  _When the rainwater comes it ain’t gonna be clear it’s gonna look like mud. ___

**This is for the lions living in the wiry broke down frames of my friends’ bodies.**

**August of ’89**

The days after Neibolt were rough, moments blurring away with tears and night terrors and long days spent in bed. None of the Losers, however, were expecting it to affect Richie the most. In the midst of it, he had been their beacon of hope, still cracking jokes and offering firm shoulder grabs and encouraging smiles no matter how bad things got. While they all knew the horror of what they went through together that day in early August would affect them all for years to come, none of them were too worried about Richie. They don’t notice it at first, too preoccupied with their own pain and grief to pay much attention to how the other Losers were doing. They all spend the first two weeks of August trying to put the pieces of themselves back together, trying to learn how to breathe easy again. Beverly is all averting glances and flinching shoulders; Mike is hollow eyes and restless feet; Eddie is night terrors and too many pills; Ben is breakdowns and too long between meals; Stan is shell shocked blank stares and shaking hands; Bill is all grief, a wound reopened after so many months of healing. It’s all worried parents, sleepless nights, tears and nightmares of bright lights and a red smile. So there really is no surprise they don’t notice much about Richie’s state until two weeks after Neibolt when Beverly suggests they meet up to talk about how they’re doing, and Richie doesn’t show. They share a frown but are too busy with the shock of seeing each other again to really put too much thought into it.

They meet again a few days later, laying on their backs in the warm grass behind the henhouse at Mike’s farm, staring at the clouds passing by and calling out random objects or animal shapes. The spot between Stan and Eddie, normally reserved for Richie, stays empty throughout the entire afternoon.

“Has anyone seen him? Since Neibolt, I mean.” Beverly asks, voice sounding raw. She hadn’t really spoken much since she arrived a few hours prior. She thought they wouldn’t notice her silence, but they know her better than anyone. She needs him to be here. Needs to make sure he is ok before she can tell the Losers what she needs to say soon. Time is running out.

“No.” They all whisper, scared of the implications.

“I r-ran into his-s mom at the s-supermarket las-s-st week.” Bill says, “She didn’t s-say hi t-to me.”

“That’s weird.” Stan frowns, “Maggie loves you.”

Bill raises his eyebrows in a way that clearly says _I know right!_

“Maybe he’s got the flu.” Eddie says, knowing the second the words leave his lips that if that was the reason for his absence, Richie would have made some attempt to tell them he wasn’t coming, or he would have just showed up anyways. It worries him that he hasn’t gotten even a phone call since they parted ways on their bikes that afternoon three weeks ago, no sign that he’s even alive. He’s so used to the constant buzz of Richie in his life, the world seems incredibly quiet and pale without him. None of the losers thinks that’s the reason Richie’s not there, but they stay silent until one by one they disperse and bike home, feeling slightly lighter.

Richie sees Eddie bike past his house on his way back from the farm from his bedroom window later that evening. Eddie glances up at the window, but the evening is dark, fall right around the corner, and Richie’s bedroom is pitch black. Something ugly twists in Richie’s guts at seeing Eddie again. He had gotten Beverly’s note about going up to Mike’s farm, guilt settling in his stomach at the thought of not showing up once again. He wants to see them. Wants to grab them by the shoulders and look deep into their eyes and make sure they’re whole. It’s such a terrible want it almost crushes him, now that he sees Eddie, all worried eyes and tight-lipped frown. He lays back down in bed, on top of the covers, and closes his eyes tightly. It’s a bad idea – behind his eyelids the horrors await him. He sees Stan’s bleeding face, tearful eyes, broken voice screaming _you left me_. He sees Bev, frozen mid-air, eyes blank and expressionless, a single tear rolling down her face. He sees the way she looked at them afterwards, as if she knows something horrible that they don’t. He sees Ben’s bleeding stomach, and hears Bill’s heart-breaking sobs, sees yellow fabric clutched in shaking hands. Worst of all, he sees Eddie’s horror-struck face between his own hands, _Eddie look at me. Look at me. Look at me._

Richie doesn’t know who he is anymore. He doesn’t recognize who he’s become. Grief sits in his bones, fear runs through his veins, sadness has taken residence in the hollow of his chest. An angry monster’s draped around his skinny shoulders, the weight of it almost unbearable. Insomnia has him by the throat, and most days he stays up staring at the stick-on stars on his ceiling until he practically passes out from exhaustion, only to be woken up by nightmares that has his throat raw with screaming. His mom barging in, _Richie, baby, what’s wrong?_ Sobbing in her arms, _I don’t think I’ll ever be ok again._ Being force fed grits and soup, his stepdad staying up watching Goonies with him when he’s too scared to go to bed, his mom holding him in her arms until he falls asleep, only leaving once she sees the serenity of sleep wash away the frown lines and worry from his sweet face.

He doesn’t hear her come in, she’s just suddenly there, sitting on the edge of his bed staring at him with worried eyes, “How are you feeling?” She asks, voice barely a whisper in the quiet of the room. Richie shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “Eddie stopped by.”

He glances at her, feeling miserable. She must know how bad this is if she sent Eddie away. “They went to Mike’s today.” He croaks, blinking hard. He doesn’t add the fact that he’s been staring out his window all day for a chance to see him when he returned. Doesn’t like how pathetic it makes him feel.

“Why didn’t you go?” Her fingers brush lightly over his cheek, tucking a curl behind his ear. Her touch is warm and soft. He wants to sink into the mattress. She smells like coffee and cinnamon, and the comfort of it is almost overwhelming.

“I’m not ready to see them.” He responds, not quite sure if that’s true. He wants to hear Bill’s laugh, see Stan roll his eyes, hold Bev’s hand, poke fun at Ben, laugh at something Mike says, see the sides of Eddie’s mouth pull upwards against his own will at something stupid Richie has just said.

“You’re starting to really worry us, baby.” She says, and her eyes are glossy. He can’t fucking stand her sadness. “Please tell me what happened to you.”

He assumes what she must be thinking. Violence and assault and trauma. In some way she’s right. “I can’t. There’s nothing to tell.” He says after a while, hating how it breaks her, “I’m sorry I’m scaring you and Went.”

She frowns, “Don’t worry about us… Just get better. We want our happy and smiling son back.” Her knuckles run along his jaw, and he wants to break. _What if I can never be that again._ He wants to scream and throw things and rip his skin open. He just lays as still as possible, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave. “Did someone do something to you?” She asks, so quietly he barely hears her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, _Eddie look at me_. He opens them quickly, “No.” Someone. Something. It doesn’t really matter. It happened and now he’s broken. His fingers grasp at the duvet cover.

“Stanley’s mom told us about his accident. He had to get stiches, the poor thing.” She says, and she’s clearly trying to coax _something_ out of him. Some explanation none of the doctors or Stan’s parents could get out of him when he showed up at the emergency room with fucking bite marks around his face. Richie just nods. He wants to ask if Stan’s ok. He knows he’s not. He wonders how the wounds have healed. Wonders if he can look in the mirror and not hate his own reflection. “Bill’s dad told Went they want to send him to treatment.”

He frowns, “What kind of treatment?”

“Grief counselling. Inpatient, Bridgewater in Nova Scotia. For a few weeks, or until he gets better.”

Richie pictures shoes with no laces and hoodies without drawstrings, Bill writing angrily in a journal in a room so sterile and blank Eddie’s mom would cry, “When?”

“They haven’t decided. It’s not a final decision yet. He doesn’t want to leave, with school just about to start up again. They’re really worried about him.” She pauses, looks at him like she’s trying to read all his secrets from the look on his face, “Is that why you’re so sad? Because of Georgie?”

Yellow raincoat, thunderstorms, smell of greywater and blood on his hands, the sound of his best friends crying. After they escaped Neibolt, they had biked straight to the Quarry to wash the blood and grime and dirt off, too scared to go back home looking like they did. They got into the water still wearing their clothes and laid down on the stones afterwards to dry off in the sun, gripping each other’s hands like a lifebuoy, afraid they might slip away if they let go. Mike and Richie had held Bill up in the water, running their fingers through his hair and rinsing the grime off his skin. He was sobbing, and shaking badly, and they held him through it. Eddie had cleaned and bandaged everyone’s minor wounds, doing his best with Stan’s face. They split up when they got into town; reluctantly Eddie and Mike took Stan and Ben to the emergency room, as Beverly and Richie hauled Bill up on the back of Richie’s bike. When they dropped him off at home, none of them had wanted to leave him. Beverly had stared at his back as they biked away, arms around Richie’s waist and head resting on his shoulder, _I don’t know how he’ll ever be whole again. I think a part of him died with Georgie_. Richie tries not to think about it.

“Is he ok?” He asks instead, and she pretends not to notice the lack of an answer to her question. It was always about Georgie, Richie thinks. About Bill’s grief, clutching him by his heartstrings, refusing to let go. It was always about fear. Beverly’s fear of her father. Eddie’s fear of disease and death. Stan’s fear of being left behind. Mike’s fear of never belonging. Ben’s fear of never being good enough. Richie’s fear of losing them and being forgotten. Richie wishes he wasn’t so fucking scared all the time. Sometimes he thinks that he could have sustained Pennywise all by himself, with all the fear he carries around with him everywhere. _My giant goes with me wherever I go._ She smiles at him, worry etched into the wrinkles around her eyes.

“No. No, baby, I don’t think he is. His dad says it’s as if the reality of Georgie’s passing suddenly occurred to him. Like he didn’t believe it for all those months, and now it’s suddenly real to him. They don’t understand what brought it on. We all know something happened with you kids this summer.” She pauses again and seems to think hard about what she’s about to say next, her eyes are searching but kind, “Eddie didn’t look too good, just now.”

Worry squeezes at his lungs until he can barely breath, and he looks at her with enough desperation to break her heart. “Tell me.” He says, tone determined.

“Dark circles under his eyes, like yours, as if he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. His smile looked wrong, like he’s really sad. He definitely seemed worried about you.”

“Was his arm still in a cast?” Richie asks, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Not the same he first had, in June. This one was blue.”

Richie figured Eddie had come home after Neibolt, cast a muddy-grey colour, and Sonia, upon seeing it, had probably driven them straight to the emergency room to get it changed. He can almost picture her face upon seeing how dirty it was. Richie almost smiles at the thought. Then he thinks about Eddie stuck in that house with that woman for the past weeks, without the Losers to distract him, and he wants to throw himself out of the window.

“I understand if it’s hard to talk about, Richard. I understand if you just want to pretend whatever happened to you guys never happened. But if one of you would tell us we might be able to help you.” Her voice is full of desperation, and for a moment he hates her for it. Wants nothing more than to be left alone.

“I’ll go meet them next time.” He says, not sure if it’s a lie or not.

She looks like she wants to say more, but then she just nods her head, leaning down to kiss his sweaty forehead. He doesn’t notice when she leaves.

Two days later, he’s just gotten out of the shower when Beverly shows up at his door demanding to see him. She looks pale and her eyes have none of the light they previously used to hold, and she looks at him with such a stern look he almost shuts the door right in her face. Her hair has grown to right below her chin, and it’s a punch in the face. He misses her terribly. Wishes he could go back to early summer and take back everything he said about her. She’s there, on his front porch, looking relieved and broken and angry – and for the first time since he met her she looks her age, thirteen and terrified of the cards life has dealt her – and he wants to pull her into his arms and squeeze all the sadness right out of her bones. When she steps forwards, arms reaching for him, he doesn’t hold back. Her arms are around his waist, his hands cup the back of her head, pushing her into his chest. She smells like floral perfume and cigarette smoke, and Richie thinks it’s intoxicating. 

“You look horrible.” She mumbles into his chest, and he realizes she’s crying, wet tears against the fabric of his shirt. He almost laughs.

“Yeah, well.” He says against her hair, ignoring how it tickles his nose.

She pulls back, staring at him, “You really do.” She says, as if just realizing. He shies away slightly, adverting his eyes from hers. “Come take a walk with me.”

He doesn’t know why he agrees. Doesn’t plan to. Doesn’t really want to. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s wearing shoes and walking out the door. The evening sun is just starting to set, and for the first time in weeks the air isn’t humid. She fishes a cigarette case from the front pocket of her overalls and offers him one. None of them comment on the breath of relief that leaves his mouth as he takes the first inhale, or how neither of them should even know how to smoke; how neither of them should need it. They walk down the street, in the opposite direction of town, down Harris Avenue, not really knowing where they’re headed. His joints ache from so many long days spent in bed, but his lungs feel full of fresh air and nicotine. When they pass Eddie’s house, Bev grabs his hand in hers upon seeing the look on his face.

“He seems ok.” She says, and he loves her for it. “I don’t think he’s sleeping much, though.”

“Are any of us?” He jokes, but there’s no humour to it, and she furrows her brows at him, cigarette dangling from her lips. The skin under her eyes look red and scratchy, as if she’s rubbed it raw.

“No. Maybe not.” She agrees, just as they arrive at a park, secluded from the rest of the street by thick rose bushes that smell sickly sweet in the warm evening air. They sit down on the curb, legs crossed in front of them and shoulders touching. Her hair looks like fire in the orange evening sun, and the bridge of her nose is slightly sunburnt. He can’t stop staring at the skin under her eyes and the greenish-yellow bruising around her wrists; the way her shoulder sag slightly, as if she’s finally let out a breath she’s been holding for a long time. He looks at her, and for a moment, but not for the first time, he thinks of how easy it would be to love her. To look at her the way Bill and Ben do – like she’s everything they’ve ever wanted. It would be easy to kiss her now, in the warm hazy light of the late-summer sunset, while they’re both sad and broken, cigarette smoke between their lips. He wishes with everything in him that she was what he wanted. She smiles at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, eyes sad as if it breaks her heart to understand him.

“I have to tell you something.” She says, and he glances at her with worry clear on his face, “I wanted to tell you all together, last week. But then you didn’t show. And if I’m being completely honest, you’re the only one I really care about explaining myself to.”

He feels his eyebrows raise in question, “You haven’t even told Bill?”

She shakes her head, then takes a deep breath, “I’m leaving Derry.” Her voice is soft and scared, and it breaks his heart. He holds his hand out for another cigarette, and she obliges without saying anything and he feels like he’s going to die here in this town without her. Wishes he could have known her longer. Can’t believe he only got one summer with her. A summer where weeks were spent apart in anger, letting fear separate them when what they needed most was to be together. He wonders, not for the first time, if they would have been better off right now if Richie never fought Bill after the first time in Neibolt. If he hadn’t said what he said.

“When?” He asks after he’s taken a few drags. A piece of ash lands on his wrist and burns slightly. He doesn’t flick it away. The smoke burns in his throat, but he keeps taking long drags. It’s the first thing that has made him feel alive in weeks.

“First week of September. I’m going to my aunt’s, in Portland.” She says, and her eyes are sad. “I can’t stay in that apartment any longer. I hate the thought of being two hours away from you guys, but if I stay here any longer I don’t know what I will do.” There are tears in her voice and Richie holds her hand feeling like he might fall apart if he doesn’t.

He wishes, so desperately it chokes him, that they were a few years older. They would save up money working shitty underpaid jobs; Mike and Bill would mow lawns, and Ben, Richie and Stan would paint houses; Beverly would work at the movie theatre and babysit on weekends, while Eddie would tutor freshmen. They would spend vacations and weekends and days-off working, scraping together enough money to buy a minivan and then, the summer after senior year they would pack up anything they didn’t want to leave behind and they would drive as far away from Maine as possible. They would switch up who drove, sleeping in the car on ratty blankets and bookbags and wouldn’t stop until they were far enough away that they couldn’t feel the weight of Derry on their shoulders anymore. Until the smell of sewers and blood and tears were distant memories. Maybe New York would be their safe haven, or they would drive down the coast to Florida, or maybe no distance would seem far enough, and they would settle in Alaska, comfort in all the miles between them and the nightmares. Bev, Eddie, Ben and Mike would go to college, and Stan, Bill and Richie would start a band, and they would all live in a tiny apartment together with abysmal heating and no south-facing windows. And they wouldn’t be scared anymore.

“Bill’s leaving too, for a while.” Is all Richie can think to say to that, taking another pull of smoke down into his lungs. His head hurts and his fingers shake.

“What?” She looks confused, “When?”

“Don’t know. My mom told me his parents want him to go to an impatient centre in Nova Scotia. A nut-house of some sort.” He says, smoke streaming out of his mouth with the words.

“It’s a hospital.” Bev says sternly, “Don’t call it that in front of him.”

His entire body itches to make a joke about asylums, but he bites his teeth together, “It’s seven hours from here to Nova Scotia. You’ll have to drive through Old Town, down the coast to Saint John’s, and then up to Moncton so you can cross into Canada. It’s a very long drive.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but Bev understands him and nods sadly.

“Maybe that will be good for him.” She smiles, but she sounds conflicted, “I can’t seem to look him in the eye anymore. It makes me feel horrible. I don’t know how to look at him without my heart breaking. He seems to notice, and it just makes me feel worse.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Bev.” Richie says with more feeling than me means to, “I didn’t think I would ever be able to look at any of you guys again without seeing the horrors of the sewers.”

“How’s that going?” She smiles sadly, squeezing his hand.

“You look like you.”

“I don’t know if that’s a comfort.” She laughs.

He sighs, “I was worried of looking at you and only seeing the white of your eyes.”

She seems to understand and averts her eyes, staring out into the evening. The sky is a beautiful shade of pink, and it washes over her pale skin, making her look like a flower in full bloom. When he returns home, his mother seems so happy he left the house and saw a friend she doesn’t even comment on the smell of smoke that cling to his skin. He sinks into bed, feeling exhausted and sad, and he falls asleep thinking Bev and Bill are lucky to be able to escape, even for a short while.

**And they cut your hair, and sent you away.**

**September of 89’**

The first week of September is stuffy and warm, the last effort of late summer to keep autumn at bay, and the Losers meet at the river by the clubhouse for a last hurray before school starts up again. Stan’s the first one there and his face is bandaged, and he looks a bit broken, and Richie almost turns his bike right around when he sees him.

“You look like an ass.” He says instead, because of course he does.

Stan grins, “Thanks dude. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

Richie waves him off, as if the implications aren’t there, “Yeah, I’ve been too busy hanging out with your mom to come see you assholes.” He jokes, and it makes Stan laugh, so it’s ok.

“Ah, so that’s why she’s looked so unsatisfied lately?” Stan grins, bumping his shoulder into Richie’s as they walk down towards the river.

“Man, you shouldn’t be allowed to be funnier than me.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s hard.”

They sit in the tall grass just below the kissing bridge, legs crossed, and eyes averted from the bright sun, and being together feels like a daydream. Richie thinks, a little panicked, of what he did that afternoon in early July, when the Losers weren’t really speaking, and Richie spent every day at the arcade. He feels like the others can see from just the look on his face whose initials are now carved into the side of the bridge, and just who put them there. His palms are sweaty. Eddie shows up last, looking skinny and pale and awkward as ever, and something funny burns in the pit of Richie’s stomach when he sits down next to him. They talk about absolutely nothing for a while; movies they want to see and comics they’ve read lately, and then Bill tells them about going away. He looks content, as if the very thought of crossing the borders of town is keeping him upright. His parents are driving him down to Nova Scotia in two days, the car already packed, and then he’s supposed to stay there until November. It sounds like an eternity. Bill doesn’t look good. His skin is pale and dry, and the skin over his cheekbones sag slightly. Richie can’t quite seem to hold eye contact with him and hates himself for it every time he has to look away.

“I bet it’s going to be a blast.” Richie says, feeling like he has to make a joke about this, “If they withhold the good drugs, just tell them about being haunted by a psychotic alien clown who tried to kill you and your friends, and they’ll give it to you in no time.”

Beverly scrunches her nose at him, but Bill laughs slightly, “I’ll r-remember th-that.”

When Beverly tells the other Losers about moving to Portland they all cry, even though she promises to call every week and visit as often as she can. None of them quite believe her. Can’t imagine ever coming back to Derry once they’ve left it behind, can’t ask that of her, even for them.

“My aunt has two guest bedrooms, and I’m going to have a double bed in my room, so there’s more than enough space if you guys want to come visit me.” She smiles, tears rolling down her pale cheeks, “Please come visit.”

“Don’t test me, I might just run away and come live with you. Then you’ll regret ever inviting me.” Richie jokes, and then laughs, and the look on Eddie’s face almost makes it all worth it. Richie hasn’t let himself look at Eddie yet, hating the way his skin looks dull and the darkness of his nightmare-kissed eyelids stand out against the pale skin. He can’t help but notice the way his hands shake in his lap or the way he’s wearing that god-forsaken fanny pack again, pill bottles rattling when he moves. He looks at him now, and he forgets how to breathe for a second, because Eddie’s looking back at him with sparkling eyes and a stupid grin on his face, as if hearing Richie laugh again had made his whole day. Richie quickly looks away, picking aggressively at the skin of his thumb.

“This isn’t how I thought this summer would end. We were supposed to be ok.” Ben says, sounding desperate for something none of them can place, and Beverly smiles sadly at him. Something about the way he says it is so wistful and sad it almost breaks them.

“I can only remember parts.” Beverly says, and something about the tone of her voice makes them all go completely silent; it sounds like a confession, “But I thought I was dead. Every day I wake up in this god-forsaken town and it feels like I died here. I love you guys so much, but I cannot stay here.”

The September air feels heavy all of a sudden, the heat unbearable. Eddie shifts in discomfort next to Richie. The cicadas seem to get even louder around them.

Richie doesn’t know what makes him ask, but it’s something he’s been so sure of since the second he saw her face down in the sewers, horror and desperation, like someone who’s just seen a ghost, “You saw something down there, didn’t you? When you were in that trance.”

Her eyes find his, and the answer is clear on her face. She looks like she’s in pain, “Yes. I don’t know how… Something about those lights.” None of them really know what she means by that, “I can’t talk about what I saw. It’s too horrible. But I don’t think it… I think we killed It, and whatever I saw doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t make sense to any of them, but they believe her. She never did tell them what happened when Pennywise took her; what she went through before they found her down in the sewers, and none of them want to ask her to go through it again. For a moment, there’s complete silence, as if they’re all holding their breaths.

“It’s actually over, right?” Mike all but whispers.

And something washes over them then, something none of them have dared to touch, even in their own minds. The _what ifs_. The fear that whatever they did down in the sewers wasn’t enough. Cold fear runs through Richie’s veins and for a moment his eyes prickle, and he thinks, no fucking way I’m gonna start crying. He pinches the skin of his thigh and stares at the grass in front of him until the feeling goes away.

“Fuck.” He groans, sounding infuriated, “It has to be.”

“Would we even notice if it wasn’t actually dead?” Eddie asks, voice terrified, hands shaking. Richie fights the urge to lean over and still his hands with his own.

Bill sighs, looking like this is the last thing he wants to think about right now, but he stands up nonetheless, “We w-will jus-just have t-t-to see, won’t we?” He looks tall where he stands, the sun directly behind him, making a soft halo appear around his head, “And if-if It isn’t dead. I guess we’ll c-come back.”

“Come back?” Beverly asks, looking troubled and tired beyond her years.

“Every 27 y-years, isn’t that what b-b-Ben said? Wherever w-we are at that p-point in our lives, w-w-wherever we live and w-whatever we’re doing – if… If Pennywise comes b-back, we’ll come back to-t-too. We will fight It again.” He says it just like that, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Richie feels anger rage inside of him, coiling in the bottom of his stomach, ugly and painful. He hates how they can’t just be done with the horror of this summer; be kids and go back to school and grow up without the burden of that fucking clown. He kind of wants to punch Bill in his stupid brave face. Instead, he closes his eyes to remind himself of yellow raincoats and greywater and tears, and when he opens them again Bill looks like everything he’s ever wanted to be.

“Fuck.” Richie repeats, and he thinks that about covers it, “You’re all shitheads.”

Beverly stands up first, smiling proudly at Bill. Richie and Eddie get up at the same time, looking at each other with exasperated eyes. The rest follow, looking disappointed but determined. Richie lets Bill cut the half-moon shape into the palm of his hand and it doesn’t even sting, and as he stares at the stark colour of his own blood against his pale skin, a sense of calm washes over him. When Eddie flinches and his watch starts beeping, Richie places a gentle hand on his shoulder, and feels Eddie’s warmth through the fabric of the shirt he’s wearing. Bill’s hand is shaking when he grabs Richie’s right, and Eddie’s hand feels warm and soft in his left and the edge of his cast digs slightly into the cut, but it’s such a welcome pain it’s kind of overwhelming. He feels their blood mix and drip down along their fingers, and he stares at the other Losers in wonder thinking he might never love anyone as much as he loves them. For a moment they stand like that, gripping each other’s hands and staring at each other like they can’t quite believe they’re all together. Stan lets go first, and it’s like it breaks the spell. The cut stings and the breeze is cold against his bare legs, and Eddie is standing way too close to him.

“I gotta go.” Stan says, something heavy in his tone. “I hate you.” He adds, eyes on Bill, and for a moment they all hold their breath. Then, Stan looks at Eddie and they both crack up, eyes crinkling and teeth showing, and Richie can’t help but join in, and suddenly they’re all laughing. Good-hearted giggles and desperate gasps of breath, feeling so fucking grateful and incredibly alive. Stan hugs Bill goodbye, promising to call him in Nova Scotia, and as he turns to leave Eddie moves next to Richie and Richie feels something desperate rip through him. He thinks about long days in bed, about Eddie stopping by last week to check on him, staring out his window for a glance of him, _Eddie look at me. Look at me._

“I should get going too.” Eddie says, sounding like it’s the last thing he wants to do, and before Richie knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing Eddies arm and pulling him in for a hug. It’s quick, and stiff and sort of uncomfortable, but something in Richie heals in it. Eddie smells like strawberry shampoo and hand sanitizer, and Richie’s heart beats so hard in his chest he’s afraid Eddie can feel it. His entire body buzzes, Eddie’s cheek on his shoulder, his hair tickling his neck, his own hand wrapped around Eddie’s upper arm, smearing his blood on his skin. He gives Eddie three sharp pats on the back, hoping it says everything he wants to convey, and then they pull apart, eyes avoiding each other’s, shying right back into the discomfort of boyhood.

“Bye.” Eddie says, in a way that clearly means, _I’ll see you soon._

“Say hi to your mom from me, dickwad.” He responds, hating himself for it.

Eddie flips him off as he walks away and there’s hope in that, Richie thinks.

**And I will help you swim.**

**September of ‘89**

The other Losers, or those of them who are left in Derry, hear the rumour the first day back at school, and Richie spends the next week punching anyone who looks at him funny and flirting with any girl who seems minimally repulsed by him. The fear he’s been feeling all summer turns bitter, something resembling rage, and when Mike asks him about it during third period, he punches him square in the jaw. He feels like shit afterwards, and apologizes immediately, and Mike’s a fucking angle whom only laughs and says, _no, I deserved that._ Stan, Ben and Eddie don’t say anything, and that makes Richie feel shitty too. A part of him had been hoping that the rumour would go to jail with Bowers, and die out before it even really got around, but obviously the universe had other plans. It all feels so fucking stupid, and if he wasn’t so fucking scared all the time he probably wouldn’t have been taking it so hard. This wasn’t the first time someone made a joke about it directed at him. You can’t be a lanky nerdy prepubescent boy without _that_ word being thrown at you. But this was the first time it had any sort of weight behind it. _I know your secret, your dirty little secret._ He kisses Sally Mueller three weeks into the semester, and then can’t seem to look Eddie in the eye for the rest of the month.

“Ben told me what happened.” Beverly says, one night on the phone in late September, and Richie debates just hanging up on her.

“Of course he did.” He snaps, getting up from the chair in the kitchen and starts pacing as far as the cord will let him, “He didn’t think that maybe I wouldn’t want even more people going around thinking I’m a fucking –”

“Don’t finish that.” Beverly snaps right back, sounding upset, “Don’t fucking say that word.” And all the air deflates right out of Richie’s chest and his eyes sting. The background music to Street Fighters plays on repeat in his head. _Richie fucking Tozier? You trying to bone my little cousin or something?_ Remembers laying on the grass in Bassey Park, his heart in his throat, Paul Bunyan’s face scorched into his brain. Remembers getting his bike and walking over to the Kissing bridge, pulling the camping knife from his pocket, and in some deranged state of mind, carving his and Eddie’s initials into the wood, feeling like he deserves to be honest with himself, even if just for a moment.

“No. No, you’re right.” He sighs, sitting back down, “Sorry.”

Beverly’s silent on the other end of the line, and he listens to her breathing for a while, not really knowing what to say. One part of him wants to let it all spill out, all the fear and shame and hatred, and the other part of him wants to deny it until his dying breath. At the end of the day it isn’t really much of a choice.

“I obviously don’t know what happened that day at the arcade.” She says after a while, and Richie’s heart stings, _you didn’t tell me your town was full of little faeries_ , “But it sounds like it must have been really scary to be confronted like that by Bowers and his goons…”

Richie opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off, “Even if what they were saying isn’t true.” She says, a little too fiercely, “Richie no matter what it’s a shitty situation to be in. I wish you would have told us about it yourself. We love no matter what. You know that.”

Richie stares at the fridge in front of him for what feels like an eternity and then says, “I’m going out with Sally Mueller.” And then feels like a complete ass because he remembers how Sally and Betty used to treat Bev back when they were all eleven. Remembers the convo he had with Beverly about it at the end of last semester, right before the summer. _They know you’re so much prettier than them, and they hate that_. And Bev had just stared at him for a while, _fuck off Tozier._ Then again, Beverly moved away and Betty fucking died, so what does it matter?

“Oh.” Beverly just says, “Well, good for you. I just want you to be happy, Rich.” And Richie hates himself intensely.

“Happy.” He laughs, and it’s so incredibly sad he almost hangs up, “Yeah.”

“How’s Eddie?”

“What? He’s good I think. Why the fuck are you asking _me_ that?” His voice cracks, and it’s nothing short of revealing. Nausea surges through him like wildfire, panic grabbing him by the throat.

“No reason.” She sighs and he doesn’t believe her for a second, “I haven’t really talked to him much since I left. I’ve heard his answering machine more than I’ve heard his voice these past weeks. I don’t think his mom has told him not to answer when I call.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart like that.” Richie sighs, wanting more than anything to storm over to the house down the street and sock Sonia Kaspbrak right in the face.

Beverly doesn’t say anything for a while, and then, apropos nothing, says, “Bill kissed me. That day at by the Barrens, after you all left.”

Richie frowns, not surprised per say, more impressed that Bill had actually had enough balls to finally do it, “Nice. Fucking finally. Do you like him?”

“It doesn’t matter. I think it was more of a kiss goodbye.” She sounds sad, “I don’t think he wants to love someone he’s going to lose again. I can’t be someone who leaves him.”

Richie hates the snort that leaves him, “That’s real fucking chivalrous of you, Bev. I’ll be sure to mention that to him when he pines over you for the next decade.”

Beverly laughs, clean and pure, “I’m not that hard to shake.”

“Beverly, Bill’s like some 1800s hopeless romantic poet ass. He’s going to be tickling his pickle to you for the rest of his adolescent life, and then he’s going to write poems about you for his entire adult life. It’ll be very romantic and annoying, and borderline obsessive.”

“That only makes me feel bad.” Beverly sighs, “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Richie grins, “Then all you gotta do is not leave him.” _Don’t leave me._

“I promised, didn’t I? Phone calls, and visits, and some blood ritual we’ll probably severely regret if that fucking clown comes back.” There’s a smile in her voice, and it’s so good to hear her talk about this shit as if it’s behind her. She’s seemed better, after a few weeks in Portland, and although Richie’s incredibly jealous she gets to be anywhere but Derry, he’s so happy for her. She deserves a good, safe life. He just hopes she doesn’t forget them.

**For the warning signs I’ve completely ignored.**

**December '89 - January of ’90**

They spend the last few months of the 80s pretending with all their might that the summer of 1989 never happened. It doesn’t work. Richie steals cigarettes from the corner store and smoke until his lungs hurt, Eddie thinks the other Losers can’t tell he’s taking pills he doesn’t even know what do, and Ben loses weight rapidly. None of them talk about what’s weighing them down, what haunts them in the dead of night, so full of boyhood anger they can’t seem to care much about how they’re falling apart. Bill comes back from Nova Scotia early November that year, and he seems good; clearer in a way. Like a picture that’s suddenly come into focus. The fall semester passes in a blur, and before they know it it’s New Years, and they spend it in the clubhouse, drinking shitty spirit they sneak from Richie’s parents liquor cabinet, and for a few hours it’s so good. Eddie and Richie share the hammock, drunk and giddy as Bill and Beverly slow dance to some awful disco song, and Ben, Mike and Stan have their first cigarettes and cough for about an hour afterwards. Richie looks at his Losers and hopes the rest of the year is as good as this night. It really isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on my twitter @richietozieer !


	2. 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he looks up at her then, sees the glossiness of her eyes, the crease of worry on her forehead, the downturn of her mouth and he wants more than anything to tell her everything. To tell her about the missing poster and Eddie’s screams and Connor Bower’s soft hand against his. To tell her about the clown, and his Losers. About just how brave they all are – how brave they were that summer, down in the sewers, and how brave they have been every day since. 
> 
> In which Richie tries to survive his impending crush on Eddie, the Losers spend the one-year anniversary of Neibolt by the Quarry, and Richie tells his sister something he never thought he would ever get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter relevant trigger warnings in the end notes for anyone who might need them.

**There's an amount to take, reasons to take more.**

**July of ‘90**

It’s summer vacation and it’s the weekend, and somehow Richie and Eddie are the only Losers available to go catch a late-night screening of a movie at the Aladdin. Ben’s on a weekend trip with his parents to New York, and he left the day before with promises of bringing them all something back from the big city.

Richie tries to talk him into buying him a bong, which Ben just rolls his eyes at and says, “And how the fuck am I supposed to bring that back without my mom and dad seeing it?”.

“That really sounds like it’s your problem.” Richie shrugs.

“When I come home empty handed because my parents threw your bong from the car window going 100 down the highway, it very much is going to be _your_ problem.”

Mike’s birthday is on the 3rd and Stan’s is on the 13th and their families have no concept of teenage boys wanting to hang out together after an excruciatingly boring school year and plans both family birthday parties on the same Friday, and because Bill’s dad works with Stan’s mom, he has to go too. That’s how it ends up being just him and Eddie, that humid afternoon, going to go see Die Hard 2, despite Eddie never having seen the first one. Eddie had suggested they go see Ghost, which Richie had teased him relentlessly about, mostly because he doesn’t think he can stand watching a romantic fantasy thriller with Demi Moore where her lover is murdered and returns to her as a ghost. While he’s nowhere near Demi’s level of physical attractiveness and Eddie is nowhere near his lover, it feels a little too close to the things that haunts him at night. Then Richie had tried to get Eddie on board with seeing Arachnophobia which Eddie vetoed in a slightly high-pitched voice over the phone, and Richie had teased him about that too.

They meet by the roundabout between their houses and bike together into town, which obviously turns into a race that leaves them gasping for breath by the time they reach the Aladdin. Eddie’s watch beeps loudly and Richie can’t help but smile widely and ruffle Eddie’s hair as he tries to get his heartbeat under control. At the kiosk Eddie buys a bottle of water and one lollipop, while Richie buys a big popcorn, a coke, a huge bag of pick-and-mix, and a jawbreaker, just to overdo it. Eddie scrunched up his nose and rants about blood-pressure and diabetes, and Richie lets him.

It isn’t until they enter the hall and he sees that they are the only ones there that he realises what a mistake this was. They sit down, two rows up and in the middle, because Eddie’s uptight and anal about absolutely everything, and the pre-movie trailers and commercials run in the background as they bicker about what they think the plot of the movie is going to be. Eddie’s surprisingly on the nose about the plot of the franchise, and Richie suspects he might be exactly right about what they’re about to see, but he still argues and denies anything Eddie says, just to be difficult.

“It’s a Christmas movie?” Eddie snorts, furrowing his brows slightly, “Why the fuck is it being released in July?”

Richie grins, “Fuck if I know. The first one wasn’t as much a Christmas movie as it just happens to take place during Christmas. The holiday was a very small part of the plot.”

“That makes no fucking sense. Just release it at Christmas!” Eddie argues, because he can never fucking let things go, which is why he and Richie work so well as friends. They’ve always pushed and pulled and argued, because they get each other and both can never really shut up, and always wants to have the last word or the best insult. If Richie looks at it too hard, it starts to look more and more like pigtail pulling. He doesn’t like to examine it too closely.

When the movie starts, Richie pays attention for about ten minutes, amused and entertained, until Eddie knocks his bare knee against his, seemingly on accident, and it throws Richie cool carelessness right off. Eddie’s wearing those ridiculous red running shorts and his knee is fucking bony and sharp, somehow, and the millisecond it was pressed into Richie’s leaves behind a sharp pressure. Richie glances over and watches the lights from the screen wash over Eddie’s soft features. His brows are for once in his life relaxed, and his eyes are wide as he watches the movie, his mouth slightly agape, and Richie feels absolutely insane all of a sudden. His palms sweat and his heart beats hard in his chest as he watches the intentness on Eddie’s face, and he thinks that this is why hanging out with him alone is so hard now. Before, when they were a bit younger and Richie was a bit more clueless to what the fluttering in his stomach meant, they would constantly be touching; leaning and pushing and touching. In later years, however, Richie can’t feel the touch of Eddie’s skin against his own without feeling like he might pass out. It’s gotten worse since last summer, and Richie doesn’t want to think about why. _Because Eddie almost died and then another boy you liked rejected you and then Eddie almost died again._ He’s spent the entire year trying to avoid being too close to Eddie, making sure to always have a buffer with them and never be alone with him, feeling horrible and guilty about it. It feels horrible to punish Eddie for Richie being a big fucking homo, but it feels necessary for his survival in this friendship to keep it at bay. If the rest of the Losers were here right now, Richie would have consciously put Bill or Stan between them, and wouldn’t have let himself indulge in the pleasure of staring at Eddie when he’s not looking back at him.

He glances away before he does something stupid like reach out and caress Eddie’s cheek and he stares at the screen trying to comprehend what is going on in the movie, bouncing his knee up and down to have something to focus on.

“Fuck off.” Eddie snaps, his voice a bit croaky, and it makes Richie jump slightly, “That’s so distracting.” He doesn’t look away from the screen, just waves his hand vaguely at Richie’s knee and Richie fights his entire body to stop the bouncing. Eddie’s shoulder is so close to his own he can feel the heat radiating off his body and if Richie just leans a tiny bit they will be touching.

“Sorry.” He whispers, and kicks his foot against Eddie’s ankle in something that is supposed to be a _fuck you, don’t tell me what to do_ way but ends up being a very _I’m so fucking nervous because I want to hold your hand and you might hate me for thinking about you like that_ way if one looks at it too hard. Richie feels slightly hysteric.

Eddie laughs at something Bruce Willis says on screen and Richie’s heart does a pathetic leap in his chest, and before he knows it, he’s standing up from his seat with a throwaway comment about how he needs a smoke and will be right back. The walk up the rows of the hall seem eternal and he refuses to turn around and see if Eddie’s watching him go. The warm afternoon air has turned to a cool evening chill and it’s so welcoming on Richie’s sweaty skin he lets out a desperate sigh. He finds a payphone at the corner of the theatre and punches in Beverly’s aunt’s number as he lights the cigarette in his mouth.

“Hello?” Bev’s aunt, Maryanne, says and Richie takes a long drag.

“Hi, Mary. Is Bev there?”

Mary sighs in a way that is entirely fond, “Yeah, just a sec, Richie.”

He hears Mary call Bev’s name, probably up the stairs, and he has the time to take three long drags of the cigarette before Beverly’s voice comes through the phone, “Richie! What’s up?”

“I’m at the movies.” Richie says, feeling stupid. He really has no idea what to say without baring all his inner secrets and shame. Being vulnerable feels a bit like peeling off all his skin and pouring salt in the wounds.

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.” She laughs, teasing but not unkind, “Sounds very much like you’re calling me from a landline right now.”

“Fuck, if you want to be anal about it! Right now, I’m having a cig. I was watching a movie and once I’m done smoking, I will go back to watching a movie.”

Beverly laughs, “Are the guys with you?”

Richie rubs his palm over his face and almost burns his nose on the lit end of his cigarette, “No, it’s just me and Eddie.”

Beverly goes quiet for way too long to be a coincidence, and Richie debates hanging up on her. He has no idea why he even called her in the first place. Has no idea how to explain the fact that when Eddie looks at him, he gets the overwhelming urge to hang the moon for him, without sounding like the love-struck idiot that he really is.

“That’s nice.” She says, and he hates her tone, “Why are you calling?”

“I have no idea.” He says, feeling unsure and insane, “I felt like it.”

“Ok. Do you want to talk about something, or?”

Richie sighs, taking another long drag and leaning his head back slightly on the exhale to watch the grey smoke against the dark blue of the evening sky, “Tell me about your week while I smoke.”

And because Beverly is brilliant and understands Richie in a way he doesn’t quite comprehend, she just laughs and says, “Ok.” And then tells him about passing math and science – which she was sure she wouldn’t, her new friend Sasha from lab, and baking special brownies with her aunt, who’s the coolest grown up person Richie knows.

When Richie sits back down next to Eddie, he feels a bit calmer. His skin is nice and cool after the ten minutes he spent outside, and the nicotine makes his brain buzz comfortably.

“You stink.” Eddie snaps, smile looking a bit forced.

“Thanks, you fucking narc.” Richie snaps right back, which makes Eddie splutter indignantly, “Bev says hi.”

“You talked to Beverly?” Eddie asks, glancing over with something in his eye that Richie can’t name. He quickly looks back to the screen, so Richie does the same.

“Yeah, there’s a payphone right outside. I wanted to hear her voice.”

In his peripheral vision he sees Eddie nod slowly, chewing slightly on his lip and the insane feeling seeps right back into Richie’s fucking bones. This cannot be normal. Any normal functioning human is able to sit next to the person they like without feeling the deranged need to scream and slap him across the face. It really isn’t fucking normal. He refuses to believe this is how Bill feels about Bev, or how his parents feel about each other. And if it is, how do people fucking stand it? He rubs both his palms over his face and stares intensely at the screen, where Bruce Willis is fighting some guy in the airport baggage area.

“How is she?” Eddie asks, and it takes Richie a few seconds to understand who he’s referring to. When Richie glances over there’s a furrow to his brow he doesn’t like, as if he’s having some inner turmoil. Richie cannot imagine what’s on his mind.

“Uh. She’s ok.”

Eddie rests his arm on the armrest between them, fingers dangling slightly off the edge. Richie’s hand is placed on his own thigh, and if he just shifts his pinkie a little bit they would be touching. Richie wants to hold his hand. He’s almost dizzy with want. It spreads through his chest, intervening between his ribs, until his entire body buzzes with it. Richie wants to hold Eddie’s hand more than he’s ever wanted anything in his entire, short, pitiful life. He thinks, not for the first time since he met Eddie back in elementary school, that maybe this is ok. That being Eddie’s best friend is enough. Getting to see him laugh, being the one to make him laugh, being the one he calls when he’s sad, getting to sit close to him in a way Eddie barely lets anyone close. Other days, however, being Eddie’s best friend feels like drowning.

He wonders shortly what would happen if he moved his own forearm just an inch, so that their skin would touch. Wonders if Eddie would flinch away in that way he sometimes does, in the way his mother has practically designed him to, or if he would sit completely still, full of intent, and let Richie press his skin against his. He hates that this is so hard. It’s all Connor Bower’s fucking fault. Connor and Henry and that fucking clown. Some part of him thinks that if Pennywise hadn’t absolutely tortured him for weeks during the summer of ’89 about being a big ol’ queer, Richie would probably have taken way longer to realize it. Some part of him had always known, sure. Some part that felt weird and awkward about touching his guy friends for too long. The part of him that made sure to be the last one awake at sleepovers so that he could look longingly at Eddie’s peaceful face as he slept. A part of him that made him lock himself in a public bathroom to sob once after seeing two men kiss in public on a family vacation. Then, summer of ‘89 happened and suddenly the slurs felt like brutal truth, and now he can’t fucking hang out with his best friend without feeling like the biggest creep in history of creeps.

Something explodes in his peripheral vision and he snaps his head around to stare at the screen, uncomprehending what is even going on in the movie. He feels like a fucking insane person. Richie likes Die Hard. He watched the first one three times when it came out. Once with Bill and Stan, once with his family and then again with Bill, because they’re both somehow the least boy club teenage boys ever and the most obnoxious boy club teenage boys ever, all at once. He even tried to get his sister to come with him for a fourth time but his mom put her foot down and refused to give him any more money, and being twelve he didn’t exactly have movie ticket money himself.

“That’s funny.” Eddie says, like an offhand comment he probably didn’t even plan to say out loud. Richie melts into his own chair, folding his hands together in his lap, determined to know what the fuck is going on on-screen, in case Eddie wants to talk about it afterwards and Richie won’t have to explain how he was too busy having an internal mental breakdown and staring at Eddie to pay attention.

Richie somehow survives the next hour without his brain exploding or without punching Eddie in the face to cover up how much he wants to hold his hand, so he deems it a success. They step outside and the night is chilly, despite it being over 100 degrees all week, and Richie reaches for his cigarette case without much of a thought. It’s a nice case. Beverly got it for him for his fourteenth birthday, wrapped in some Communist magazine her aunt is subscribed to, and he cried a little bit when he opened it. It’s sleek, silver with a picture of a cartoon Satan with a speech bubble that says “Satan’s a lesbian” on the front, which seems like an inside joke they never really agreed on. Richie smokes menthols because he’s a wandering stereotype and has to do everything in the queerest way possible. Beverly teases him about it every time they see each other but ends up smoking half his pack nonetheless.

“Do you want to get lung cancer, asshole?” Eddie asks when he lights one, and pointedly stands two feet away from him against the wind, and Richie just grins.

“Oh, yeah. My biggest fucking wish, actually.” He takes a long drag and, because he’s an ass, exhales sharply in Eddie’s general direction. Eddie splutters angrily and steps back another 5 feet. “I just thought, if a psychotic alien clown can’t take me down, this is the next best thing. Unless Pennywise comes back to life to finish me off before the cancer does.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose in disgust, “Shut up. That’s not fucking funny!” He snaps, but there’s a bit of humour underneath the anger. Richie drinks it all in and grins.

“Oh, come on Eds.” When he speaks, the smoke pours out of his mouth and Eddie stares at his lips for way too long. Something flutters in Richie’s stomach.

“What?” Eddie says, resolutely looking away. He has pulled a sweater over his polo shirt and it’s a bit too large for him and Richie sort of wants to bang his head against the brick wall of the theatre until he sees stars.

“I think we deserve to let ourselves be a bit careless.” He stubs the cigarette out on a traffic signpost and starts unlocking his bike, “It’s going to be a year in two weeks.”

“I fucking know that.” Eddie snaps, and moves over to unlock his bike too, looking like one of those tiny yapping dogs middle-aged suburban white women keep in their purses. “Do you not think that’s the only thing that’s been on my mind since summer started?”

Richie, who’s only thought since school let out that year has been about getting drunk and avoiding sleep at all cost, grimaces, “Sounds boring to think so much. The sloppy bitch’s dead. Remember how Ben bit It?”

Eddie laughs like it takes him by surprise, “Ew, yeah. I can’t believe he did that. It’s a miracle he didn’t contract some hideous disease from that.”

“And then you kicked It in the face.” Richie laughs, and it feels so fucking great to talk about it without wanting to throw up. The breeze blows a curl into his eyes, and he has to lean his bike against his hip so he can remove his glasses to brush it away. Eddie stares at him with an unreadable look on his face.

“I don’t actually remember doing that. Bev mentioned it last summer, the first time we hung out after we defeated It. I only remember watching you guys fighting it, and the vomit, and then I think I kind of blacked out.”

Richie laughs so hard his stomach hurts, “Yeah, that was so fucking disgusting.” He gets out between laughs, and Eddie frowns at him in the way he always does when he doesn’t want Richie to make him laugh too, like it takes everything in him not to join in.

“I threw up for a week afterwards, thinking about it.”

Richie stops laughing, remembers Eddie’s shaky hands and pale skin, skinnier than usual, that day at the Barrens when he finally saw him again after spending three weeks in bed trying not to do anything fucking stupid. He grimaces and then says nothing, because for once in his life he has no idea how to respond. No stupid inappropriate joke, or slightly mean comment.

Eddie turns around to look at him, and then says, “I’m on Benadryl now.”

Richie raises a brow, just as they grab their bikes and start walking towards the kissing bridge, in some silent agreement that they want to hang out in the clubhouse for a bit before they go back home. Richie’s stomach churns familiarly at the thought of going there with Eddie, a mix between melancholy want, and biting nerves. It’s not as if Eddie would be able to spot what Richie carved into it last summer, if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but Richie still wants to throw up.

“Mmm, sexy. For the puking?” He asks, sounding just as nervous as he feels. Eddie nods, looking thoughtful. “What else are you on?” Richie doesn’t mean for it to sound so condescending. He thinks his worry and concern mix into an ugly cocktail that comes out all wrong, and Eddie turns defensive as always.

“Fuck you, dude.” He spits, and Richie holds up a hand in defeat, like a peace offering and they change the conversation topic immediately. Mike, Stan and Bill are already in the clubhouse, playing a round of go fish, and Eddie joins as Richie lounges in the hammock, smoking cigarettes and staring at the ceiling, wondering if this will ever be easy for him again.

**This is for the lake that me and my friends swim in, naked and dumb.**

**August of ‘90**

August is hard. Every day is a never-ending reminder of last year. There’s a heatwave, from the end of July throughout the entire month of August, and it brings thunderstorms like they’ve never seen before in Maine. Bill jerks up in bed, awoken by huge thunderclaps that has him shaking and crying out for his parents, nightmares morphing into real life. Richie lays awake in bed, listening to the heavy rain outside, trying to think of anything but overflowing sewers and yellow raincoats. Richie gets his first job at Secondhand Rose, which fills up his closet with more patterned button ups than a teenage boy will ever need. Beverly comes to stay for a few weeks, sleeping in Richie’s bed even though Went dragged the old air mattress out of the garage and spent an hour fighting with it to get it blown up, cursing and stomping around Richie’s room. She has bad nightmares, and they end up taking midnight walks more times than not, chain-smoking Richie’s menthols as they stroll through town. The Losers spend long afternoons in the Clubhouse, and when it gets too hot down there with only their hand-held fans, they jump from the Quarry clifftops and lay floating on their backs in the water, sunscreen stark white over their noses because Eddie won’t leave them alone about it.

“Does it still keep you up at night?” Mike asks, one afternoon, as they’re sunbathing on the same rocks they laid on that day after Neibolt, last year. Bill and Ben are still in the water, snorkelling gear on, looking for who knows what in the murky water. Eddie and Richie have been bickering for an hour about Legion of Iron, which they all went to see the night before. Beverly is painting Stan’s toenails a horrid shade of pink, and he’s laying stretched out, a pleased smile on his face, a ridiculous amount of sunscreen on the scars around his face. Richie leans up from his spot to stare at Mike, dread heavy in his stomach.

“Of course.” Beverly says, putting the nail polish away in her bag and stretching her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes, “I think it always will.”

“I think I’m really tired.” Stan says, rubbing his hands over his face, “Of thinking about it all the time.”

Eddie sits up, pulling his knees up under his chin, “I still look over my shoulder, wherever I go.”

Richie stares at him. His nose is lathered in sunscreen, stark white against the deep tan he’s gotten over the past weeks, and his shoulders are dark with freckles. Richie feels a bit dizzy, looking at him too long leaves him feeling zinged out and sweaty. He can’t stand the thought of Eddie being scared all the time.

“I think I can still hear him sometimes.” Richie says, before he can even think about opening his mouth, and then frowns at himself. Eddie glances at him with a worried look on his face, nervously biting on his bottom lip, brows furrowed.

“Really?”

Richie scratches the back of his neck, “It’s just in my head though.”

“That’s… Fuck.”

Bill and Ben make their way up from the water, as if sensing that things are getting heavier on shore. Bev sighs, “I hate that you guys are trapped in this town until graduation.”

Richie frowns, “Yeah, well not all of us can have a hot communist aunt who wants to take us in and give us a good life. My aunt lives in Texas and owns a pug breeding farm, and smells like cabbage.”

“Where do you guys want to go, when we can finally leave?” Mike asks, moving over to make space for Bill on his towel. Bill has red lines around his eyes from the goggles, and his hair is wet and plastered against his forehead. If the mood was even slightly lighter, Richie probably would have made fun of him for it.

“Anywhere b-but m-Maine.” He replies, grabbing the t-shirt he was wearing earlier to dry his hair with. Mike grimaces at him, and pulls a clean towel from his backpack for him to use instead.

“I want to go to New York.” Bev says, grinning, “I like New York. I will go to FIT and get my degree in Fashion Design, and I’ll make affordable and ethical clothing. And I will live in a shoebox of an apartment with like three cats, at _least_ , and Derry will feel like a distant nightmare.”

“Sounds good. Might come sleep on your couch.” Stan laughs, but it sounds strained, “I can’t believe I’m supposed to stay here a year without any of you guys.”

And Richie who’s known Stan his entire life, is still shocked to remember he’s a year younger than them all. He thinks about Stan down in the sewers, sobbing and screaming at them. Slapping Richie’s chest, as if he betrayed him the most, _you left me alone. You left me to die. You’re not my friends._ Remembers holding Stan’s face in his hands, chanting, _I’ve got you. We’ll take care of you_. He can’t stand the thought of Stan staying behind as they all go off to college.

“Shit.” Beverly sighs, “I didn’t think about that.”

“I would stay behind.” Richie says, before he can think about it, but he finds that he means it, “I would wait for you. My parents would let me have a gap year to just work. Maybe Went would let me intern at his practice.”

Stan grimaces at him, “No, the fuck you won’t. I’ll just have to save up money and finish my last year of high school wherever the fuck you go.” And he doesn’t say you, as in all of them, but you, as in Richie. Richie’s heart clenches in his chest.

“Your parents would never let you leave.” Eddie argues, resting his chin on the tops of his knees. His eyes are bloodshot after jumping from the cliffside into the murky water, and his fingers are pale against his tan legs.

“I would leave anyways. I don’t think I would survive it here without you guys.”

It’s sad. It’s so sad Richie almost gets up and jumps into the water so no one will see his eyes tear up. He can’t fucking do this. Pretend like any of this is ok. Act like they should have these thoughts, these feelings, this bottomless well of sadness inside of them. They’re only fourteen.

“New York would be cool.” He says instead, gritting his teeth together, “I’ll go to some pretentious liberal arts college with Bill and Ben. Eddie, Stan and Mike can go to NYU or Colombia and be smarty pants.”

Eddie grins at him, “What will you study?”

“Hell if I know. I’ll probably be undecided for way too long, and you’ll yell at me for it. Say I’m wasting my parents’ money just to lay around all day getting drunk and high. I don’t know. Maybe acting? Or music. I’ve always wanted to be in a band.”

“You have the look.” Eddie says, with no explanation to whatever that means, “I think I would like to be a doctor.”

“Of course, you do.” Richie rolls his eyes, afraid he looks as fond as he feels, “You should just tell the college board about patching us all up after our life-threatening trip down in the sewers to kill an intergalactic entity in the form of a child-eating clown. They’ll have to give you a scholarship!”

“I don’t k-know.” Bill grins, voice teasing, “I have a p-pretty ugly scar on my knee, still. M-might not look so good on the ap-p-application.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie squeaks, sounding affronted, “It was a bit of a pressed situation. Stan was bleeding out of his fucking face. I couldn’t give less of a shit about your scraped knee!”

Richie laughs loudly, “There it is! I imagine that will go well over with patients. _No, sir, I will not see you because it’s only your finger that’s broken, while somewhere else in this hospital someone’s whole hand is broken_!”

“Fuck you!” Eddie laughs, and the skin by his eyes crinkle, and Richie’s toes feel numb.

“I can’t wait for you all to leave this town, so we’ll never have to come back. We’ll force your parents to come to New York for holidays. They’ll be a bit annoyed and upset at first, but then they’ll still come.” Beverly says, voice wistful. Her shoulders are a bit burnt, and she’s wearing an oversized button up shirt over her yellow swimsuit.

“Fuck no. Eddie’s mom is not allowed anywhere near our apartment.” Richie says, deadpanned, and it makes them all burst out laughing.

“Imagine Rabbi Uris on our sofa, staring in distaste at the rock posters on our walls. Went asking us all about our dental hygiene, and ranting for hours about the importance of flossing. Mr. Denbrough poking at all the cracks in the walls and offering to fill them all in for us.” Bev laughs, and they can’t help but join in. It’s nice, to sit in the sun with them and daydream about a future they’re all so desperate for.

“Why would we have cracks in our walls?” Mike asks, between gasps of laughter.

“It’s New York!” Bev says, like that means something to them.

“I need you guys to be real about this.” Eddie says, voice small, “Are you all serious? We would leave and live together. All of us? I don’t want to sit here and dream if you guys don’t mean it.”

“I have never been more serious about anything in my fucking life.” Bev says, and there’s nothing but determination on her tanned face. Eyes bright and mouth pursed, as if she’s ready to fight any of them if they argue.

“I want to.” Ben sighs, “But who knows what’s going to happen in the next half a decade? Who knows if we all even get into college…”

Richie grins, narrowing his eyes, “That felt awfully pointed.”

Mike laughs, then frowns, as if thinking hard about something, “I just wish I believed things would get easier before then. It feels an awful long time away. Four more years in this shithole.”

Richie rubs his nose, smearing sunscreen everywhere, “Yeah.” He agrees, blinking hard, “I thought it was supposed to get easier with time. It’s been a whole year and it still feels like yesterday.”

“I can’t believe we’re here today.” Ben says, “Not in like a, wow, we’re alive, way. More. Here. At the Quarry. We were here a year ago, after we got out. I know you all know this, it’s just… Fuck. I sat on this exact rock, rinsing the shit off my shoes. You guys were all still in the water and I was shaking so bad.”

“F-fuck.” Bill agrees, eyes distant. Richie doesn’t even want to begin to imagine what he’s thinking about. The horrors of yellow raincoats still haunt him in his dreams.

“Leaving Derry feels like catching a breath you had no idea you were even holding.” Bev says, smile kind, “This is going to sound stupid, so bear with me. But leaving the city lines is like putting on a band-aid. Like. The scar is still there, the injury still happened, but at least it’s not bleeding anymore. I still get phantom pains sometimes; nightmares and panic attacks and flashbacks, but it’s healing. Slowly, sure, but it’s enough.”

“How long before the rest of us bleed out?” Richie mumbles, feeling scared and stupid.

“Hopefully longer than four years.” Bev says, voice fond and kind, and he glances up at her to give her a grateful smile.

“Good.” He says, and then gets up from the stones, stretching his arms up above his head and blinking hard against the sun, “Now let’s go jump from the cliffs one more time before we have to head back into town.”

Stan gets up, grinning, the same mischievous look on his face that he had that day, at his Bar Mitzva last summer, “Race you?”

Richie feels grateful and alive, and sets off running before the rest of the Losers can even begin to get up, Stan hot on his heels. They race up through the forest and up the dirt road, terrain rough against their bare feet, but it’s a welcome pain. When Richie stops as the cliffside, Stan is right behind him, panting slightly, but grinning widely. Mike and Bill are next to them within minutes, with Bev, Ben and Eddie right behind. And they jump from the cliffs, Stan and Richie first, the rest following one by one. They wrestle and splash around until their fingers look like prunes and they’re shivering from cold, the sun having gone down a long time ago.

**It's no big surprise you turned out this way.**

**November ‘90**

It’s a series of unfortunate events that lead up to Richie sobbing on his bedroom floor one late winter night a few weeks before Thanksgiving. He spends the entire day feeling itchy and clammy, the early symptoms of abstinence just under his skin. He had smoked the last of his weed that weekend with Stan, and had flushed whatever pills left in his room down the toilet, during an especially good night where the thought of going clean of off hard drugs felt like the easiest thing to do. Stan lays a concerned hand on his shoulder in gym when Richie almost has to run to the locker room to throw up, but he brushes it off and keeps running the mile. He meets up with some sleazy looking Senior behind the Holiday Inn, who makes a shitty joke about Richie’s glasses and overcharges him for a bag. He walks back home, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, hat pulled low over his ears, breath icy against the sharp coldness of the winter air, ground frozen beneath his feet. He takes the first pill the second he closes his bedroom door, after making sure his parents are out for the night. His sister is playing music loudly from behind the closed door of her room down the hallway.

For a moment, it’s good. He’s warm and the duvet on his bed is soft against his sensitive skin, and the Doors plays softly from his shitty, old, record player, and he lays on his back staring at the stars on the ceiling. His vision is blurred, colours fuzzy and intense, and he smiles giddily. Then, his heart seems to be picking up speed by the minute and his lungs feel tight and he’s on the floor before he knows what hit him. The whole house feels like it’s spinning, and he grips his fingers into the wooden floor of his bedroom, eyes wide as he tries to focus his breathing. The music is overwhelming, the floor is hard beneath his knees, his clothes stick to his sweaty skin. He stays like that for what feels like hours, on all fours, fighting against his own lungs and heart, sobbing softly. He wonders if he can get downstairs to the phone in the kitchen and call Bev, get her to ground him. The very thought makes him want to throw up, and he slowly makes his way over to the door, gripping the door handle for dear life. The crawl down the hall to Chris’ room is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and it takes everything in him to not just collapse on the cold floor outside her door. He knocks weakly against the white-painted wood, and counts each breath he takes before she swings the door open. She looks annoyed at first, glancing down at him on the floor, then panic seeps into her features. And Chris, because she grew up in the same house as Richie, with the same dad, knows exactly what’s going on and doesn’t waste time asking silly questions.

“Rich, Jesus Christ.” She whispers, leaning down to get her hands under his armpits, lifting him up with strength unbeknown to him, and gets him over to the bathroom. She helps him into the bathtub, holding him up when he almost slips and knocks his head into the tiles on the wall. His limbs feel heavy and out of his control, and his head is buzzing uncomfortably; disorienting and loud. She gets him out of his shirt and pants, leaving him in only boxers, and he starts shivering violently immediately.

“What did you take?” She asks, running her hands through his tangled hair, eyes glossy and afraid, and he has to close his own eyes, unable to handle the look on her face.

“D’know.” He mumbles, head spinning violently, and he opens his eyes again to stare up at the yellow lamp in the ceiling, “A pill.”

“Only one? Do you have any more of the same pill? So I can try to find out what the fuck you’ve taken.”

He leans his head back against the edge of the tub, shivering, and waves his hands vaguely in the direction of his room.

She lets out a huff of air, “Ok. I’ll look later.” She places the back of her hand against his damp forehead, “I need you to try to throw up, Rich. We need to empty your stomach in hopes that not all of it has gone into your blood yet.”

He nods his head, hating himself. Hates knowing that he’s the second man Chris has had to do this with in her seventeen years of life. Hates that even though Went has tried his hardest to be a good male role model, kind, and patient, and funny in a way that is never mean, Richie is a hundred percent his fathers’ son. But for some reason, Chris doesn’t look like she hates him, or like he’s a burden. She just rolls up the sleeve of her sweater, grits out an apology, and shoves her fingers down his throat, other hand firm on his back as he leans forwards between his own legs. Chris talks the entire time he throws up, not removing her hands once through the entire thing.

“Richie, you can’t keep doing this.” She says, voice so kind he starts crying, hating how much he’s disappointing her, “I know you’re having a rough time, since… Since the Denbrough’s lost Georgie. It can’t have been easy for you to see one of your best friends go through that. I know mom and Went are worried for you. Mom thinks something happened to you and your little friends. I want you to know that you can tell me anything.” She strokes his forehead, brushing his sweaty curls away from his eyes as he cries and pukes.

Once he’s emptied the entirety of his stomach content, she gets up to turn the shower on, rinsing away the puke in the tub, and then lets the water just run over Richie’s shivering body. He tucks his knees under his chin and wraps his arms tightly around them, cheek pressed against his forearms as he sobs quietly. The world has stopped tilting, but he still feels like his skin is on fire.

“I’m him.” He cries, and she flinches slightly, a sad smile on her face.

“God. No, you’re not. Jesus fucking Christ, Richard.” She leans forward to grip his face between her hands. She looks exactly like Richie. Dark wild curly hair and deep blue eyes, big nose and wide mouth and sharp shoulders. When they were younger he would follow her around like a shadow, always listening to whatever music she liked that year, wearing whatever clothes she discarded onto him, thinking she was the coolest person in the entire world. “Don’t ever say that.”

“I am though. He used to be like this. Do this to you.”

“You don’t remember him as well as I do. I promise you you’re nothing like him.” She whispers, pressing a kiss against his damp forehead.

“I don’t want to be. I can’t. I just hate how my brain feels when I’m sober. It gets so loud sometimes.”

“I know.” She mumbles, lips against his skin, “I know, baby.”

He leans away from her slightly, and she gets the hint, sitting back on her heels to stare at him, “I’m sorry. Don’t tell me not to be. This isn’t ok.” He mumbles.

“No, it isn’t. But I’d do it again. However many times you need me to.”

He groans, “Get some fucking boundaries, Christine.”

She smiles widely, slapping his bare shoulder, “Fuck you.”

The water against his skin is warm, and the high is more comfortable now, more tolerable, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

“Will you please just tell me what’s on your mind? Penny for a single one of your thoughts?” She asks, leaning her head against the side of the tub, glancing up at him, and he feels like he owes her something. An excuse. An explanation.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently.” He whispers, hating how scared he sounds.

“Rich, I just watched you puke for half-an-hour. I have your vomit all over me. I don’t think anything you could possibly tell me would change how much I love you. How much I’m willing to deal with, for you.” She says, laughing slightly, “When mom brought you back from the hospital, I was only three, but I swear it was love at first sight. I knew, from the first time I held you in my arms, that there was nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Please let me.”

Richie groans, tears prickling hotly in his eyes, and he rubs his pruny fingers over his face, “Stop making me fucking cry.”

“Stop fucking overdosing.” She bites back, not unkindly, “Really. I’m not trying to make you cry, I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Fuck.” He groans, “Fucking hell.”

She waits patiently as he cries, head under the stream to wash away the tears, and then wraps his shoulders with a towel once he collects himself. She lifts him up from the tub, sitting him on the toilet seat as she dries and brushes his hair, rubs lotion over his face and brushes his teeth. Once he’s good, she helps him into her room, where she gives him one of her sweatshirts and sweatpants to wear, and then gets into bed with him, holding him like she used to do when they were kids. When their dad was high off his mind and angry, and they were scared, she would hold his head against her chest, running her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

“I know things seem bad right now. But you’re meant for so many greater things than whatever this shitty fucking town has to offer. I don’t want to leave for college next year, wondering if you’re going to be alive by the time I come back for Christmas.”

“Don’t guilt trip me.” Richie groans, but his heart feels heavy at the thought.

“I’m not. Or I am, if it works.” She laughs, her whole body shaking, “Just please don’t ruin yourself before you know how much more life has to offer you. There will come a day when you look at whatever is getting to you right now and think, _shit, that sucked_. Past tense.”

He stares at the poster of the Pixies on the wall directly across from him. Charles Thompson stares right back, “I’m not so sure.” He says. Because he isn’t. How is he ever supposed to get the image of Pennywise’s misshapen head after Bev stabbed him out of his mind. How will he ever close his eyes at night without seeing Stan’s bleeding face, without hearing Bill’s sobbing, without seeing Beverly’s blank expression. How will there ever come a day when he can pass the statue in Bassey Park and not almost piss his pants out of fear. He groans, pressing his eyes closed. _Eddie look at me_. How will he ever be ok when he carries his worst nightmares with him wherever he goes, waiting right behind his eyelids.

Chris frowns at him, “Please, tell me.”

And he looks up at her then, sees the glossiness of her eyes, the crease of worry on her forehead, the downturn of her mouth and he wants more than anything to tell her everything. To tell her about the missing poster and Eddie’s screams and Connor Bower’s soft hand against his. To tell her about the clown, and his Losers. About just how brave they all are – how brave they were that summer, down in the sewers, and how brave they have been every day since. He wants to tell her about Ben clutching Bev’s body, shaking her. Mike with his gun. Ben and his heavy heart. Bev and her kind smile, meeting the day head on despite the horrors that waited her at home. Stan fighting the clown despite his injuries. Eddie bandaging them all up after Neibolt, not as much as a tremor in his hands. Richie grabbing the baseball bat, _now I’m going to have to kill this fucking clown_. He doesn’t feel particularly brave now. He looks at his sister’s face, who’s been his person since the day he was born, and he just feels exhausted with trying to keep everything in all the time.

“What does it feel like,” He starts, not glancing away once, even when his eyes brim with tears, “To kiss a boy?”

Chris’ face doesn’t drop. She doesn’t look disgusted or ashamed or revolted. Only curious, and a bit sad. She shakes her head and gives him a sly grin, running her fingers through his hair, “A bit overhyped, in my humble opinion. Except sometimes it’s really good.”

He nods, tears streaming down his face, “Shit.”

She laughs, “Sometimes it feels like flying. A full body tingle, fucking goosebumps and all that. Sometimes it’s hard, and scary, while other times it’s as easy as breathing. It depends on the boy, really.”

Richie frowns, and then cries harder.

“Is that what it’s about? You want to kiss boys?” She asks, voice so careful and kind he almost breaks. He cannot believe her. Can’t believe she’s still holding him. Still loving him. “Or… _a boy_.”

Richie stares at her, trying to get anything coherent out of his mouth, but his brain feels like one big exclamation point, alarms going off. _Eddie look at me. Eddie look at me. Eddie look at me._

“Ah.” Chris grins, “This doesn’t happen to be all about little Kaspbrak?” When Richie just splutters indignantly, she grins wider, “Oh, I should have fucking guessed. You two were always quite obsessed with each other.”

“Obsessed? What are you talking about?” He doesn’t like how his voice is considerably higher in pitch than usual.

“You’ve always enjoyed him bossing you around, and he’s always let you talk him into doing stupid shit. Uris has been here since day one, but Kaspbrak’s like. Your person. I suppose. You two used two drive mom fucking crazy.”

“Yeah, we did.” Richie grins, a weight of his chest that he had never realised was quite this real, “It’s… It’s always been him.”

Chris smirks, eyes fond, “Makes sense. He’s such a tiny, funny, rage filled person. I should have figured that’s what gets you going. You might end up with Sonia Kaspbrak as a mother-in-law though. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Richie snorts, then frowns, “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll ever have to deal with that.”

“Why not?” Chris asks, running her fingers through his hair once more. They’ve sunk deeper into the bed, her arms tight and secure around him.

“He isn’t… I don’t think he’s- We’re just friends.”

Chris frowns, “You sure? He’s always been so fiercely loyal to you. Remember when you made him jump down from the tree in our backyard, before Went cut it down, and he broke his ankle? He stood up to Sonia when she tried to accuse you, even though it was one hundred percent your fault. He took the blame for your stupid dick measuring contest.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Chris huffs out a breath, “I just think it might not all be what you think. I think it’s worth talking to him about, if you’re serious about your feelings for him. You never know unless you ask.”

And Richie thinks, as he’s about to fall asleep, safe and sound in his sister’s arms, that that’s kind of the problem. How will he ever tell Eddie about the way his heart feels without risking losing him completely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Mention of time-accurate homophobia, violence and implied sexual slurs, and internalised homophobia.  
> Implied prescription drugs addiction.  
> Emet, briefly discussed in the July part, but quite graphic in the November part.  
> Brief mention of panick attack, but it's not described in any detail.  
> Big trigger warning for the November part - drug-overdose, not fatal.  
> Implied parental abuse, alcoholism and hard drug addiction.  
> Be safe <3333333


	3. 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You might not believe that, because you think that you’re hiding this huge part of yourself. But we know you. We know your heart. Your kindness. Your wit. Your warmth. Your friendship. That’s all that make you, you. It’s all that matters, in the end. It’s not all the different things that make up your social identity that matters, to the people who love you; it’s your essence.”
> 
> In which Richie is lost, the Losers celebrate Ben's birthday, Richie tells Beverly about what really happened that day in the arcade, and Christmas-shopping is really hard when you're Jewish and in love with your best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones one of my favourite chapter of this fic so far, so please enjoy!
> 
> Chapter relevant TWs in the end notes! Please check that out before reading <3

**Make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face.**

**May of ‘91**

Richie spends the entire first half of the year of ‘91 running away. He kisses five girls within three months and loses his virginity to a shitty girl in a tiny bed late February, not because he isn’t sure that he likes guys, but because some small part of him thinks he might be able to convince himself to like girls too. The emptiness inside of him eat away at his soul. He spends long weekends in Portland, sleeping in Bev’s bed, getting drunk on homemade blueberry wine and high on anything Bev can get her hands on, and it’s so good to be just the two of them. He helps Bev pierce her nose and she gives him shitty stick-and-poke tattoos that he’ll probably regret in a few years, but it’s something to control and he hangs on to that with everything in him. He spends the weekend of his fifteenth birthday with her, and she loses him in the city on a night out. When she finds him six hours later he’s got a split lip and his eye’s swollen shut, and when she tries to get him to tell her what happened he snaps and they scream at each other the entire way home, and she asks him to leave next morning. The bus ride back to Derry is the worst two hours of his entire life, and he cries the entire way, feeling like everything good in his life is slipping through his fingers.

His parents seem worried and he doesn’t see the Losers much lately. Eddie and Stan are always studying, talking about college and the future, and it makes Richie sick to his stomach and bored out of his mind. Bill, Mike and Ben can’t seem to hide their worry from him and it eats him alive so he stops coming to the clubhouse and stops sitting with them at lunch at school. He sees the way they look at him in the halls but he can’t make himself care much.

The last night of May brings along the certain humidity of a warm summer and he spends the evening at the Quarry feeling lost and angry. He sits at the cliffside, legs dangling from the edge, smoking a joint and thinking about all the things he misses. He misses long summer days splashing around in the water below, sun beating down on their bare shoulders, nothing but the sweet carefreeness of boyhood. He misses lazy afternoons in the clubhouse, reading comics and playing board games, feeling like all that matters in this world is friendship. He misses Beverly’s laugh and the way she looks at him like he’s someone to want to keep around. He misses the way Mike used to firmly grab his shoulder, or the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at Richie’s raunchiest jokes. He misses Ben’s ranting about music or art, or the way Bill will jump in, so sure of his own opinion he barely stutters. He misses talking on the phone with Stan at night, reading books or comics out loud to each other or gossiping until one of them eventually falls asleep on the line. Most of all, worst of all, he misses Eddie. He misses him so bad he can barely stand it. Their eyes will meet in class, and Richie’s stomach will flutter, his heart will scream, and he wants more than anything to go back to bickering and soft, friendly, touches and fighting with no malice in their words. _Give me a reason_ , he thinks, staring down at the black water below. Richie feels so incredibly hollow and desperate for something he can’t put words to, he gets up and bikes home before he does something stupid.

Eddie, as if he can tell what Richie’s been thinking about, stops him in the hallway the very next day, looking angry and determined, “You’re being an ass.” He says, and Richie can’t help but smile sardonically.

“Thank you.” He responds, and tries to walk around him.

Eddie steps to the side to block him, frowning, “Do you hate us?”

Richie stares at him, surprised, “Of course not.” He says quickly, then catches himself, “I don’t have time for this, Eds, I have to get to class.” The nickname slips out as easily as if they never stopped hanging out, and it pulls painfully at his heartstrings. He waits for Eddie to say _don’t call me that_ , with that little aggressive chopping motion he always does when he’s annoyed. It never comes, which is how Richie knows Eddie’s really fucking angry.

“That’s horseshit.” Eddie snaps, “I know you don’t give a fuck about class. Stop avoiding me you absolute shit.”

“ _You_ sound very much like you hate _me_.” Richie says, narrowing his eyes, “What do you want?” He sounds tired to his own ears and he leans against the locker next to him. Eddie’s let his hair grow out longer than he usually keeps it, and Richie isn’t sure he likes it. It curls slightly around his ears and the nape of his neck, and Richie has a strange urge to brush it away from his eyes.

“I want you to stop acting like a dick.” Eddie says simply, and then smiles a bit, “You’re making us feel like shit.”

Richie sighs, closing his eyes, and he’s met with the now familiar image of Eddie’s horrified face at Neibolt. _Eddie look at me._ And while he was prepared to push Eddie away further, say something shit and move along with his day, he opens his eyes and says, “I’m sorry. I know. Fuck.”

Eddie looks a bit surprised, like he was expecting more of a fight, but he quickly wrangles his features back to something resembling anger, “You best be sorry. I can’t believe you’re really stupid enough to think we don’t understand what you’re going through. I can’t believe you’re pushing us away.”

Richie groans, his own anger surging up, right where it usually sits, where he’s gotten so used to carrying it, “Fuck you, dude.” He bites out, “I can deal with this in any way I see fucking fit. Don’t try to lecture me when you’ve got those fucking pills in your system.”

Eddie steps back, as if Richie’s physically pushed him, and looks furious, “I- Fuck you. Really. Fucking fuck you.” He snaps, his voice an octave higher than usual, despise how much deeper it’s gotten over the last few months, “I don’t give a shit about how we’re all ruining ourselves, as long as we do it together.”

“Sweet fucking sentiment, Eds.” Richie sighs, rolling his eyes.

Eddie steps forward again, pushing against Richie’s chest with so much force Richie has to catch himself not to fall over, “I don’t care that you get drunk and high, and smoke a pack a day. I don’t fucking care, Richie, because I get it. I understand it so much it fucking hurts.”

And suddenly Bill is there, walking down the hall towards them with concerned eyes, because of course he is, and Richie’s entire body buzzes with the need to run away, but he stands his ground, “Then what’s your fucking problem?” He snaps.

Eddie looks like he’s at the end of his rope, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed Bill’s presence behind him, “I care that you fucking left me!” He yells, eyes blazing with anger and mouth in a hard line. Richie’s anger deflates in his chest, and his stomach drops, and he think, _oh_.

“I didn’t- Eddie. Fuck.”

“When we were in Neibolt, that first time, after I broke my arm. You and Bill found me and Pen- It was there. And It was going to fucking kill us, and I was sure we were finished, but then you grabbed my face and forced me to look at you instead of that fucking clown. You made sure It wouldn’t be the last thing I saw before I died, and then you fucking left me alone to deal with all the shit afterwards.”

Richie’s speechless because for however much he’s been thinking about that moment for the past two years, he didn’t think Eddie had even noticed, yet alone understood what it meant. _Eddie look at me. Look at me._ In the moment, he hadn’t really thought about it. He had seen that fucking clown start moving towards them, heard Eddie’s terrified screams next to him and he had thought, _no, he’s not going to go out like this_. If they were going to die, that clown wasn’t going to be the last thing they saw. Richie wanted to die looking into Eddie’s eyes.

“What happened in Neibolt… It didn’t mean anything.” Richie lies right through his fucking teeth and the look on Eddie’s face almost fucking breaks him.

Bill’s about to open his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t have time because Eddie goes, “Oh, fuck you dude.” And punches Richie right in the face. 

The world goes dark for a few seconds, and when Richie’s able to see again, he can tell Bill is shouting something, but he doesn’t hear it, too busy staring at Eddie’s determined, angry face and thinks _fuck_. Eddie just punched him in the face and Richie wants, with every ounce part of his being, to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him senseless. _Fuck_. He blinks hard, regaining his balance. His jaw doesn’t even hurt, even though he can feel his heartbeat right under the skin, and knows it’s going to bruise. He stares at Eddie, who’s face morphs into something confused, and thinks that Eddie’s the most wonderful person on this earth. _Fucking hell._

“Shit!” Bill says, and the spells broken, and Richie’s entire face fucking pulsates with pain, “F-fuck, Rich, you ok?”

Richie groans and cradles the side of his face, “Yeah. I’m absolutely splendid. Fuck.” He gasps, then laughs, feeling slightly unhinged, “That was a good one, Eddie.”

Eddie furrows his brows, looking a bit pleased, but like he doesn’t want to show it, “I hate you.” He says, and it’s nothing short of a lie, and Richie out-right grins at him.

“Sure you do.” He laughs, feeling like something in him has snapped back in place, “Let’s go to class, fuckface.”

Eddie grins right back, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.”

Neither of them cares about the shocked look on Bill’s face. Eddie grabs his bookbag, squares his shoulders and laughs, “Let’s go then.”

**I'm gonna help you swim.**

**June of ‘91**

“I cannot believe you punched him in the face.” Beverly laughs at Eddie, loud and unbothered, and Richie grins at her over the top of the bong. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the clubhouse, wearing one of Richie’s shirts as a dress, and she has more hair accessories in her hair than Richie even knew excited. Most of her hair is pulled out of her face in a bun at the back of her neck, the two front pieces of her hair is braided with hair rings, while her bangs are pushed back with four hair clips of different colours.

It’s Ben’s birthday, the fourth of the Losers to turn fifteen, and they’re all together to celebrate. Beverly got into town for the first time since last summer just that morning and has spent the entire day in the clubhouse smoking weed with Richie from the bright green bong she had brought him as a late birthday present and playing go fish. He’s stupidly high and incredibly happy, and she looks less uncomfortable with being back in Derry than he thought she would be. Eddie’s sitting next to him on a wooden box, laugh still on his face after telling Bev about their little hallway brawl last week. Richie had told her over the phone that very afternoon, but with none of the dramatic flair that Eddie seems to have put into it. Their conversation had been a little like this:

“I hate myself for being an ass to you.” He said, twirling the phone cord around his pinkie.

“Yeah, well. Sometimes, after fighting a child-eating clown that terrorized you for a whole summer and left you traumatized, you might be inclined to feel like the universe owes it to you to let you behave like an ass sometimes.”

“You’re never an ass, though.”

“I always want to be. Sometimes I’m so fucking angry with how much I want to be mean and cruel. It’s ok.”

“It’s not. I said some horrible things to you, none of them even close to true.”

She said, “I’m not without blame here, Richie. I think I legitimately called you a self-centred drug addict.”

He laughed loudly, “Yeah well that one’s pretty true.”

“It was your birthday.”

“I don’t blame you for being angry at me that night.”

“Well I fucking do. And I should have called sooner.”

“Me too.”

“I love you.” She whispered, sounding sad.

“I love you too.” He said, and then, “Eddie punched me in the face today at school. It was amazing.”

He takes a sharp inhale, clearing the chamber of the bong and leaning back slightly to exhale the smoke. He doesn’t miss the way Eddie looks over at him as he does it, then snaps his head away when Richie glances back at him. Eddie looks good tonight, but then again Richie thinks he looks good every day, so he isn’t that much of a reliable source. His hair has a slight curl to it, due to the humidity, and lack of product. He’s wearing a linen button up over denim shorts, his skin is warm and tanned, and Richie honestly thinks he might go insane tonight if he looks at him for too long.

“It wasn’t that dramatic.” He says when he’s done exhaling the smoke, coughing slightly, “I did not have tears in my eyes. You punch like a nine-year-old girl.”

Eddie splutters indignantly, “Fuck off! You literally said, and I quote, _good one Eddie_.” He changes his voice to something nasally, which is apparently supposed to be his impression of Richie.

“You did say t-that.” Bill adds unhelpfully, and Richie sticks his tongue out at him.

“I wish I could have witnessed that. He needs to be knocked on the head every now and then.” Beverly laughs, and scoots the bong over to where Bill’s sitting, waiting patiently. They’re strange around each other lately. In the way where they both know that they once wanted to kiss each other and now know that neither of them feels that way anymore. She lights the bowl for him, and he inhales way too sharply and ends up coughing up half a lung, and they all laugh till they have tears in their eyes.

“That’s what you fucking get.” Richie grins, vision slightly blurred with tears and a comfortable high, “Karma, and stuff.”

“Shut up, d-dick.” Bill huffs when he finally stops coughing, and he leans back in his seat a bit to grin at them, “Wow.”

Ben and Stan are playing a round of cards, some intricate poker duel that made Richie’s head hurt with all the rules of it, passing a beer back and forth between them. Mike’s lounging in the hammock, already quite buzzed, tuning on the radio so they can get some good music in there. Richie feels like they’re thirteen again, when everything felt easy and they would lounge around down here for hours, laughing and talking about everything and absolutely nothing. The only difference now, he supposes, is the trauma and the illegal substances, and the fact that when Eddie’s sock-clad foot presses against Richie’s leg his heart thumbs helplessly against his ribs, and he knows what that means now. Knows other people don’t react to Eddie in the same way.

“Me next.” Eddie says, waving towards the bong.

“Woah! Wait a minute.” Richie says, grabbing the bong from Beverly before she has the chance to pass it over, “Are you still on Benadryl?”

“What?” Eddie snaps, looking annoyed and sort of like a cornered animal. All big eyes and flaring nostrils, and Richie kind of wants to kiss him senseless.

“Last summer you told me you were on Benadryl, for your nausea.” Richie explains, voice lowered so the other Losers can’t overhear, and they seem to get the message, turning around to talk amongst themselves. Mike lets out a little whoop as he gets the radio to work, and _Even the Losers_ by Tommy Petty and the Heartbreakers fills the clubhouse.

_Well, it was nearly summer, we sat on your roof  
Yeah, we smoked cigarettes, and we stared at the moon_

_And I showed you stars you never could see_

“Oh! I love this song.” Beverly calls out, excitement cutting through the silent tension, and gets up from the floor to join Mike in the hammock. 

“I’m not on fucking Benadryl anymore.” Eddie whispers angrily.

“What are you on?” Richie presses, holding the bong against his chest as if Eddie is going to try to pry it from him, “Weed crashes really badly with certain prescription medicines and the last thing I want is for you to have some sort of horrible reaction.”

“Since when are you the concerned, responsible one? I’m trying to be reckless.” Eddie groans, but his left dimple is showing, “ _You_ should know what that feels like.”

Richie narrows his eyes at the implications Eddie’s trying to make, “You won’t feel very reckless when you’re dead, Eds. Now tell me what you’re fucking on.”

Eddie’s eyes widen slightly, and an embarrassed blush creep up his neck, flushing over his nose, “I’m on Xanax, duloxetine, and Adderall.” He mutters angrily.

Richie sets the bong down between them and reaches for the grinder so that he can pack the bowl, “Ok. Have you taken Xanax today? That’s the only one to really worry about.”

“No, I’m not on a daily dose… They’re mostly for when I need them. When the duloxetine isn’t enough.”

Richie frowns as he turns the grinder, “Should you be mixing those?”

“Are you my fucking doctor?” Eddie snaps, which makes Bev look over with concerned eyes. Richie glances at her and grins, as if to say, _no harm done_. Eddie’s all bark, and he can handle it. Richie has always been a rather big fan of all of Eddie’s barking.

“No, but I’m your fucking friend.” Richie chuckles, “Now let me light your bowl for you, dickwad.”

Eddie frowns, but turns slightly in his seat, placing his bent knee up on the box so it presses into Richie’s thigh, and it’s almost unbearable, “Okay.”

“Take a nice long inhale, and don’t hold back if you have to cough, it’ll only make it worse.” Richie warns as he places his index finger over the hole on the back of the bong, and leans the mouthpiece towards Eddie.

Eddie scoots even closer, bending slightly to put his mouth on the mouthpiece, then glances up at Richie through his lashes, “Well, then don’t fucking laugh if I cough up a lung.”

Richie grins to cover up how absolutely wrecked it feels to look at Eddie like this, “Oh, Eds. You know I will.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and Richie sparks the lighter into the bowl, listening to the steady bubbling of the water, the crinkling of the weed igniting. He watches Eddie’s face, intently, as he inhales the smoke that has gathered in the chamber, leaning back slightly to exhale. Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck and the spine of his back, and he has to avert his eyes from staring at the line of Eddie’s neck. He glances at Stan and Ben’s cards as Eddie coughs slightly, and Beverly laughs.

“Shit.” Eddie groans, coughing a few times more before he leans back down, eyes glinting slightly, “Once more.”

Richie feels insane, which at this point should be unexpected, when he’s around Eddie. When he’s close to him like this. He lights Beverly’s bowls all the time. He lit Stan’s first bowl. Something about this, however, feels so strangely intimate he’s about to burst. Something about Eddie leaning his entire body towards Richie, eyes hazy and grin stupid, hand on Richie’s shoulder to balance himself, mouth on the bong, makes Richie’s blood boil to an unbearable heat and he thinks if he looks at Eddie for a moment longer he’ll pop a boner.

“I can’t believe this is the first time you smoke.” Beverly says from behind them in the hammock. Her legs are dangling off the side to make space for Mike, who seems to have grown into a full-blown adult over the past few months that Richie hasn’t seen him every day.

Eddie coughs, “Yeah, well. Someone in here hasn’t been sharing.” He sends Richie a pointed look.

Richie holds up his hands in surrender, “I don’t buy shit from Derry people anymore. It’s all either fucking shitty or laced. Bev’s my supplier, and I haven’t seen her since March.”

“Because you’re a dick.”

“And because you’re a bitch.”

Beverly laughs loudly, “Oh, touché.”

Eddie frowns, “It can’t all be laced.”

Richie scratches absentmindedly at his knee, avoiding Eddie’s eyes, “Believe me. You don’t want to risk it. People in Derry don’t give a shit if you die in a puddle of your own vomit in some ditch.”

In all honestly, Richie’s stomach burns with concern at the thought of Eddie having a bad trip. He thinks about how this is how it goes with them. Richie pushes and teases and Eddie relents, every single time; having his first beer, egging Miss. Knox’s house, sneaking out after curfew. Richie knows he’s a bad influence on Eddie, who’s been taught to be quiet and kind and take up no space, follow the rules and listen to anyone older than him. Be complacent and a good boy. If Eddie has a bad time being high, or gets sick, it’ll all be Richie fault. He thinks about the summer two years ago, when Richie was less aware of how much he talked Eddie into things. Thinks about Eddie wading through shitty water and fighting a killer clown all because Richie loves egging him on, and never backs down from a challenge even when it’s stupid and dangerous. Thinks about Eddie breaking his arm and kicking Pennywise in the face, tight lipped and fear frozen on his face. He looks at Eddie’s face now, bright and sun-kissed, none of the familiar harsh frown lines, just pure and unfiltered calmness.

“Yeah, well. Your favourite girl has brought you enough shit to last for months.” Beverly’s voice cuts through Richie’s thoughts, and he’s suddenly back in the clubhouse, Eddie’s knee pressed into his thigh, Stan’s pointed look at him, some Twisted Sister song playing in the background. “I was horrified they were going to check my bag at the bus station.”

“Why would they check your bag?” Mike asks, getting up from the hammock to get himself another beer from the ice chest in the corner, and sits down next to Bill on his way back. Bill grins, eyes glazed over.

Beverly hums, “They do that sometimes. Check for weapons and drugs.”

“And you have both on you at all times.” Ben pointedly says from the floor, not a hint of judgement in his voice. He slaps his cards down onto the ground with more force than strictly necessary, “Aha! I win.”

Stan groans, but nods and offers Ben his hand to shake, “Seems you did. Good game.”

“You’re so polite Stan.” Richie huffs, moving slightly on the box so Eddie’s knee isn’t touching him anymore, “I know you have a lot of rage inside. Let the beast out.”

Stan frowns up at him, all perceptive eyes and pursed lips, “You wouldn’t be able to handle my beast, Trashmouth.”

Richie snorts, “Oh, fuck off. My beast could defeat your beast on any given day. My beast would eat yours for breakfast.”

“What are you two even talking about?” Ben sighs, getting up from the floor to sit down on the chair next to the hammock, placing Beverly’s outstretched legs in his lap, in a way that isn’t entirely platonic to Richie’s eyes. He decides not to comment on it, seeing the way Beverly’s eyes flicker over to him, dark and very telling. She’ll tell him later.

Stan chuckles, draining the rest of his beer, “I normally have no idea. I’ve learned to just go with whatever train of thought Richie is on in the moment.”

“It really is a talent.” Beverly laughs, “You and Eddie are the only two who’s seemed to have mastered it.”

“I think I learned Richie-speech at the same time as I learned English. I think my father would have been way prouder of me if I was half as good at Hebrew as I am at Richie’s language. Eddie’s just as confusing, sometimes, so he didn’t have any problem with it when we first met him.” Stan says, still looking at Richie with _the look_. Richie wrinkles his nose at him, trying to convey the message _cut that out_ with his eyes.

Eddie giggles, clearly intoxicated, “It’s not so hard if you’re smart. And if you don’t really look for the common thread to his topics of conversation, and also look away from his horrifying syntax.”

“I love it when you speak grammar at me, Spaghetti.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later. I’m way too stoned to get it up right now.”

Eddie grimaces as him, looking very red and very annoyed. Richie grins.

“Beep beep, Richie.” Beverly laughs, kicking his shoulder softly with her foot, “Send the bong back here, the birthday boy needs to get on our level. He's way too sober.”

Ben huffs, but lets her light the bong for him, “I have a high tolerance. What can I say?” He shrugs once he's exhaled the smoke.

“Bullshit.” Richie snorts, “You once got so drunk you let me convince you to piss at an electric fence up by Mike’s family farm.”

Ben splutters, laughing so hard he has to fold over Beverly’s feet to put his head between his legs, “Oh Jesus Christ! I had totally forgotten that night.”

“What the fuck? You could have died!” Eddie squeaks, looking angry but also kind of blurry around the edges. Like he’s not really as angry as he sounds.

“It would have been a glorious death.” Richie laughs, leaning back to fist bump Ben, whom looks a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. Beverly kicks him again.

It’s nice. They’re all high, and drunk, and happy. Eddie doesn’t freak out, instead he becomes mellow and touchy, in a way he never is when sober, and Richie lets himself enjoy it a bit more than he probably should. Letting Eddie lean against him, slinging his arm over his shoulders in what he hopes looks like a casual, friendly, way to the others. Around midnight, Bev falls asleep in the hammock, and Bill trips over his own feet trying to walk over to the ice chest, so they all decide to call it a night. Stan and Richie support each other up the ladder, wobbly and shaky. Ben comes up next, with Bev sleeping in his arms, because of course he's carrying her. Mike and Eddie are somewhat supporting Bill up the ladder, each their arm under his armpits, but they’re laughing so hard they keep dropping him, so Richie surges forward and pulls him up the last few steps. They trip and stumble their way through the forest, laughing the entire way, and then start the long walk through town and over to the residential area on the opposite end of the city. It’s a humid summer night, and they’re all crossfaded, and if Richie lets his hand brush against Eddie’s a few times as they walk, he can blame it on that.

**This is for the snakes and the people they bite.**

**July of ‘91**

Richie feels like every Maine summer is hotter than the last, and he never gets used to it. July of ‘91 is one never ending heatwave, air shimmering with heat, the waters at the Quarry overpopulated every day, the ice cream shop busy at all hours. Richie has such an intense growth spurt that summer, growing about five inches, it genuinely feels like he just sprung up to be 5’11 overnight, and when he meets Eddie the next day he has seemed to have grown just as many inches himself, now being about 5’7. Beverly goes on a two-week vacation with her aunt and some of Mary’s hippy friends to Norway, Maine, at the start of the month, and sends Richie a post-card about how much fun she’s having and just how much weed she’s smoking. Ben spends the same two weeks at the summer programme he told them about, all those months ago, the first time he showed them the clubhouse, and comes back with his mind dead set on going to Architect school after they graduate. Stan gets a job at the same thrift-store Richie works at, and they spend long boring days behind the register together, all the fans in the store pointed at them, drinking iced coffees and eating shaved ice. Eddie gets his first sunburn ever and gets grounded for a week, and Richie sneaks into his room every night to keep him entertained, ignoring the way his stomach burns as he sits next to Eddie in his tiny bed, upper-arms pressed firmly together and feet entangled.

They get invited to their first party ever three weeks into July, and it’s mostly because of Beverly, who people seem to think is the coolest person ever since she moved away from Derry. Stan gets hammered so Bill has to take him home early, and Mike and Ben are naturals at beer pong and win a few popularity-points that way. Lisa Patterson kisses Eddie in a game of truth or dare, and Richie spends the rest of the evening throwing up in a bathroom on the second floor of the house even though he only had one beer and part of a joint. Beverly sits on the floor next to him, feet pressed against the door – that of course won’t lock – to make sure no one suddenly walks in on them, and holds his hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, knuckles running over his cheekbone, and he rests his cheek on the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl. If Eddie was here he would be losing his shit over that. _Eddie_.

“We’ve all miscalculated a bit.” He grins, feeling like the most pathetic person ever.

“Baby.” She says, leaning her head on his shoulder, “You barely drank anything.”

“Maybe the weed was laced? I think I might have accidentally smoked crack. Again.” He tries.

She gives him a sharp look, but decides not to comment on the _again_ , “If the joint was the problem here, I would be fighting you for a space to puke in the toilet, babes.”

“Bev...”

She sighs, sounding absolutely exhausted, “I have to go check on Eddie. We left him down there with all those … Derry people. I can’t imagine what he’s been put through if Mike and Ben haven’t finished their game and come to find him yet.”

Richie lifts his head slightly just so he can bang his forehead back down against the hard porcelain, “He seemed to be doing just fine.”

Beverly purses her lips, looking conflicted, “He didn’t even want to come tonight.”

He turns his face to get a better look at her. Her red lipstick is smudged at the corner of her mouth, and a curl of hair has escaped the clips pushing back her bangs. She looks beautiful and sad.

“No one made him come.” Richie mutters, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid having to look at her expression.

“No, but no one ever has to. He goes wherever you go.”

Richie grimaces, “What?”

“He always wants to be where you are, doing what you do. He threw back that first beer within seconds just because you dared him to.”

“Are you blaming me for something?” Richie snaps, feeling like his head is going to explode and like he might throw up a bit more. It feels uncomfortably close to what he, himself, had been thinking a few weeks ago in the clubhouse, a bong between them, Eddie’s eyes glassy and bloodshot.

“No.” Bev sighs, running the palm of her hand over her face, which smudges her makeup even more. “I’m just saying. Don’t blame him for trying to do what people do at parties.”

“Hold up.” Richie sits up, “I’m not blaming him for anything? I’m just throwing up.” And feeling like someone did a marathon with his heart stapled to the underside of their shoe.

“Okay, Rich. I’m just gonna go see if he’s good.”

Bev leaves and the room feels tiny all of a sudden. His legs reach the door and his back is against the wall next to the toilet. He fishes the half-smoked joint from the pocket of his shirt and lights it, thinking fuck it. He gets in a few good tokes in before Beverly’s back. She sits on the edge of the bathtub, her feet resting on Richie’s thighs and she reaches out for the bud.

“They’re going to go home. Ben, Mike and Eddie.” She says after she exhales the smoke.

Richie frowns, “Ok, yeah.”

“He was waiting on the stairs. Says he’s been there since you went upstairs. He wanted to make sure you were ok, and when I told him I had it under control he left.” She takes another toke and hands it back to him, and he burns his fingers taking the last one. He stubs it out on the side of the toilet and flushes the filter.

“How considerate of him.” Richie mutters.

“I knew you were blaming him for something! Jesus Christ, Rich!” She laughs, but it lacks humour, and sort of feels like a slap in the face.

Richie gets up from the floor to sit on the edge of the tub next to her, and puts his head in his hands, “I’m not- Fuck.” He grumbles, rubbing his eyes so hard he sees stars, “I’m really not. I’m blaming myself.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to do that.” Bev mutters, slightly teasing.

Richie groans in frustration, “I don’t! I’m not blaming myself for whatever it is you think I should be blaming myself for.” He huffs, “I’m blaming myself for being so. Such a mess.”

Beverly frowns, leaning her head against the back of his shoulder, “You’re not a mess, Richie. You’re sad.”

He laughs without much humour, “I’m real fucking tired of being sad.”

“I know, honey.”

“What do I have to be so fucking sad about, anyways? I got away the cheapest, that summer. Bill’s little brother got eaten by a fucking clown!” He sounds slightly hysteric, and he stands up quickly to pace the tiny space of the bathroom, “Mike and Ben were almost murdered by bullies for what? We live in a town that would rather they be dead than exist outside or the norm. Stan got his face chewed on by said fucking clown, thinking we had left him to die alone! You and Eddie got the whole mommy and daddy shit- I’m not- Augh!” He kicks his foot into the tiling around the bathtub and immediately regrets it, as overwhelming pain shoots hotly up his leg.

“Richie!” Bev gasps, grabbing for his foot but he shies away, into the corner of the room, like some scared animal. The look on her face is overwhelmingly heart-breaking.

“And what about me?” He continues, “Bill punched me in the face and Bowers called me some slurs? Oh, boo fucking hoo. What the fuck is wrong with me? Complaining to you as if your entire life hasn’t been mildly traumatic at best.”

Beverly frowns, looking slightly annoyed, “We don’t compare trauma, Richie. My situation doesn’t make any of you guy’s situations any better. Can you compare my dad touching me to Bill losing his brother the way he did? No, well then you cannot compare Stan being attacked to what happened to you that summer.”

“Oh, what fucking happened to me, Bev?” He snaps, feeling so at his limit he’s a bit scared of what he’s going to do next, blood pumping loudly in his ears.

“Richie, you don’t want to do it like this.” She says after a while, eyes sad and voice very serious, and Richie’s so scared he almost gets down on the floor to throw up again. His anxiety thunders in his throat, and he desperately tries to swallow it back down.

“Do _what_!?” He spits, and she flinches slightly, and he feels like the worst person in the world. She’s right. He knows she’s fucking right. Knows that his sadness isn’t only a product of what happened two summers ago. He was sad and angry at the world long before Pennywise.

“Nothing.” She sighs, standing up and brushing her hands off on her thighs, “I want to go home now. I’m tired and you’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers, anger crumbling like a house of cards, “Bev, please don’t be mad at me.”

Beverly smiles sadly at him, nothing but love in her eyes, and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. He stares at his own reflection in the mirror behind her. His skin is pale and damp, eyes very clear and glossy, more red than white. The hand that holds the back of Bev’s head is dry and cracked at the knuckles. He wants to hold her forever, closing his eye to focus his senses on the way she smells like beer and lavender, the way her hair is soft and warm under his palm. Sometimes it scares him how much he loves her.

“I’m not angry at you, Richie. I love you so much. Please don’t be mad at yourself. It breaks my heart that you think you aren’t allowed to be angry and upset. This town hasn’t been kind to you either, so stop acting like you have no reason to be sad.”

“I love you, Bev. I’m sorry I’m such a dick. I love you.”

They get into bed and curl up against each other that night, legs entangled and arms around each other. Beverly’s head is pressed in the hollow between his chin and his chest, and he rests his jaw against the crown of her head. He thinks about what she said, earlier, and feels guilty. It feels like he’s lying to her, about who he is, about why he is how he is. He thinks about the missing poster, in the upstairs room at the Neibolt house. _He is survived by nobody, and will not be missed._ How can someone be missed if no one truly knows who they are?

“Bev?” He whispers against her hair, and she nods against his throat, breath slightly damp against his skin, “When we were in Neibolt, that first time. I never told you guys how Pennywise got to me. What he showed me.”

Beverly’s hand grips his t-shirt tightly, “You don’t have to tell me. If you don’t want to. You don’t owe me anything.”

He nods, eyes staring straight ahead at his bedroom door, and tries to think of why he didn’t tell them, any of them. Thinks about what it means. “I don’t think I owe _you_ anything, Bev. I think I owe it to myself to be real for once in my fucking life.”

“Ok, if you’re sure. What did you see?”

He adjusts slightly, so that he’s laying on his back, with his cheek pressed against Bev’s forehead, her head on his chest, “We got separated from Eddie pretty early on, me and Bill. We were exploring the second floor, and then we were looking for Eddie, and a voice called out my name. Uh, it was Eddie’s voice, calling for me. Bill didn’t hear it, and I followed the voice into this room filled with clowns. Puppets and dolls and stuffed toys. I was trying to act tough, because I thought Eddie was in there, but you know I’ve always been afraid of clowns. I did a fucking essay on John Wayne Gacy earlier that year and was still a bit spooked. Which is why I acted like such a dick about the whole clown thing, when you guys told me.” He takes a moment to recollect his thoughts, amazed by how quiet Beverly’s being. “Anyways, the door closed and locket on its own, so Bill couldn’t follow me, so I decided to just look for Eddie by myself. There was this coffin in there with a doll that looked exactly like me, filled with maggots. It was fucking disgusting. The doll was wearing the exact same fucking outfit I was wearing that day, too. And on the lid of the coffin was a missing poster with my face and name on it. Like Georgie’s. Like Betty’s.”

Bev sucks in a breath, and twists her head up to look at him, “Oh.”

“Pennywise, the fucking dick, jumped out and scared the shit out of me and was teasing me about how no one was going to miss me if I went missing, and a bunch of shit like that. And at first, right after, I thought the whole thing was about me being scared of not being, I don’t know, noticeable. That I feared not leaving an impression, being easy to forget. Or some shit. And I felt really stupid about it, like very selfish, because you guys were afraid of very real things.”

“That’s not stupid, Richie. Lots of people fear being forgotten. Especially creative people like you. It makes complete sense to me.” Beverly says, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of Richie’s face, and he leans slightly into the touch.

“But that wasn’t it. It didn’t seem right to me, for so long. And now I think. I think it was more about being forgotten without truly being known. I walked around all the time so fucking angry at the world and angry at myself for being a coward. And then Georgie died, and Bill got so fucking. Dark. And I tried joking it all away because I was fucking terrified. I kept thinking that if I went missing, like Betty and Georgie, that I would disappear without anyone that I loved having truly known me. I’ve always been bad at sincerity and honesty, and I cover up anything real with jokes, and there we were, in Neibolt, about to die. And I thought, fuck, I’m really about to die without being real even once. I’m going to die a stranger to the people I love. I’m going to die a fucking coward.”

“Oh, babes.” Beverly whispers, and she sounds like she’s crying, and Richie must be too because there is something wet against his cheeks and his throat feels raw, “I don’t know what to say. That’s so sad.”

Richie laughs, “Asshole.”

Beverly chuckles wetly, “No, it is. What the fuck.” She gets really quiet for a while, and then says: “I really hope you will let me know you, one day. I would really like to.”

A broken sob rips through him, “Yeah. Soon, I think.”

She nods, and squeezes him a bit tighter, nuzzling her face against his skinny chest, as if there is nowhere else she would rather be, and Richie think it might not be too horrible to show himself to her. To Beverly, who found a family in a bunch of social outcasts, who’s a communist and a feminist, who goes to rallies and demonstrations in New York with her cool anarchist aunt, who took the rest of the Losers to see Mannequin 2 earlier that year, and wouldn’t let Richie make a single joke about Hollywood Montrose. And he thinks, if not tonight, then when?

“I’m…” He starts, then doesn’t know how to put into words all the feelings bubbling over inside of him, “I think- No, I definitely am. Fuck.”

“It’s ok. Take your time.” Beverly whispers, squeezing his arm.

“It’s really not, Beverly. I have no idea how to do this. Be real about myself. I’ve never been good at that. I feel like I’m pulling my teeth out.”

“It’s supposed to be hard, I think. It’s never been easy for me neither.”

He looks down at her. At her messy hair and bare face. At the small smile on her face, and the way there’s nothing but understanding and love in her eyes. It reminds him of a similar night, almost a year ago, when he did this the first time.

“I’m gay.” Someone who sounds an awful lot like Richie says, and it takes him a moment to realise he has spoken. Beverly smiles at him, wide and pure.

“Yeah.” She says, a little laugh in her voice, “Thank you for telling me.”

And it’s not like he ever thought she didn’t know. From the moment he met her, properly, that day behind the pharmacy as Eddie tried to bandage up Ben’s stomach, he’s had the sense that she could see right true him. He’s just very thankful she hasn’t forced it out of him before, always very stern on the fact that she wants him to tell her at his own time, on his own initiative. He’s so grateful for her, and her friendship, her love, he almost can’t breathe.

He laughs, and then chokes a bit on the tears that well up in his eyes, “Fuck.”

“I’ve said it before, Richie. I love you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.” He sobs, then shakes his head, “I wanted to tell you. I’ve been trying to get it out for months.”

She smiles, and cuddles up even closer to him, as if to stress that nothing’s changed between them, “I know.”

He huffs out a laugh, “I was going to tell you, when I came to Portland for my birthday. I spent the entirety of the bus ride preparing a speech, and then I stepped off at the stop and just. Couldn’t find the words in me anymore.”

“Will you tell me what happened that night? When we fought?”

He sighs, closing his eyes tight, “Got into a fight with a group of guys outside of a bar for calling me slurs. It wasn’t… I was just so hurt, and angry at the world, and I wasn’t ready to talk about the whole ordeal. You kept pushing, because you were worried, and I snapped. I would rather tell you about the arcade.”

“Oh.” She says, as if it catches her off guard, “Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

He squares his shoulders, as if preparing for a fight, “I spent every day in there, those two weeks we weren’t really hanging out. Most days I was alone, but some days Connor was there, and we would play together. Bowers’ cousin. I didn’t know that, at first. He was really cool, and nice. And he has these fucking eyes. Dopey puppy dog eyes. And I didn’t understand how obvious I was being, until that day.”

Beverly nods, rolling over on her back, grabbing for his hand instead, “Do you think he… Reciprocated?”

Richie shrugs, chest feeling tight, “I’m not stupid, or blind. There was _something_. Something that kept him coming back, day after day. I don’t know to which degree it was.”

She lets out a non-committal hum.

“As I said, I didn’t realise I had done anything wrong until it all blew up in my face. I don’t think I was thinking about it, and then Bowers showed up, and I think Connor freaked out because he realised it wasn’t totally one-sided. I was so surprised that someone had finally caught on, I couldn’t even get out the words to defend myself as Bowers was screaming at me.” He sighs, rubbing the hand that isn’t holding Bev’s over his face, “Afterwards, I was sitting on the bench in Bassey Park, right by the stage, and Pennywise was there.”

“What?” She gasps, squeezing his hand in hers, “You never told us that!”

“I didn’t think there was any way to tell you about it without baring my entire fucking chest. I was feeling guilty about the whole thing. I felt like I had done something bad.”

“Fuck. Richie… We all had the impression that… I don’t know. That he didn’t have that much on you. Or something. You made us believe he wasn’t torturing you, like he did us. I’m so sorry.”

“No.” He hums, squeezing her hand back, “It’s only my own fault. I didn’t want to seem weak. I didn’t want to admit I was scared. Maybe a part of me thought admitting it made it more real, somehow.”

Bev nods, “What happened, then? In the park?”

“The fucking statue, the one of Paul Bunyan, came to life and started chasing me. All the while Pennywise’s voice was chanting, _I know your secret, Richie. Your dirty little secret._ I kept hearing that in my head, all summer. I still do sometimes.”

“So, the missing poster? Eddie’s voice luring you into that room? You grabbing his face downstairs? It was all… Oh, Richie.”

It’s all very overwhelming, and he sobs quietly into his palms for a while, as Bev rubs his arm and kisses his shoulder, whispering how much she loves him and how brave he’s being. He doesn’t feel brave. He feels exhausted and scared. He feels past due.

“Who else knows?” She asks once he’s calmed down a bit, as he’s getting up to grab a joint from the drawer on his desk. He lights it on the way back to bed, crawling up to sit on his window still. Bev gets up to sit next to him, blanket around her shoulders.

“Sometimes I’m convinced everyone fucking knows, on some level. I refuse to believe Stan and Bill don’t know. Sometimes I’m so scared Eddie knows. Chris knows. I told her last year.” He says, smoking pouring out of his mouth as he speaks. The air is biting against his bare arms, but he welcomes it on his feverish skin, letting it wash away the anxiety he carries around with him all the time. “I had a bad night. Got some fucking laced shit, and she had to help me come down. She knew something was wrong, and I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I’ve never been good at lying to her.”

“Shit, why did you never tell me that?”

“I was really embarrassed, if I’m gonna be honest. It made me feel pathetic, and really bad about myself. You know how my biological dad was… I haven’t done hard drugs since, though. I’m all joints and beer now. The chill stuff.”

“How did she take it?” Bev reaches for the joint, and he hands it to her after taking a last toke.

“She was brilliant. Obviously. She told me… She said she always thought I was a bit in love with Eddie, growing up.” He laughs, coughing slightly.

Bev raises an eyebrow, “And are you? In love with Eddie?”

He coughs, “Walked into that one. Fuck. I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s just my best friend, and whatever I’m feeling is just the result of years of friendship. We’ve been friends since we were six, you know? And then other times I look at him and he makes me want to set myself on fire.”

Bev lets out a laugh, eyes sparkling, “I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean you’ve noticed?” His voice is a squeak, and he grabs the joint back from Bev before he can embarrass himself any further.

She grins, “You look at him like you’re looking at the sun. Like he’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen. Like he amazes you every time you look at him.”

“Glad I’m being so fucking obvious.” He mumbles, taking a deep exhale of smoke before stubbing it out on the side of the house and tossing the filter into the bushes below.

“I think I’m just observant. The rest of the guys are a bit knuckleheaded. I don’t think they would notice even if you had it spelled out on your forehead.” She laughs, and Richie can’t help but join in, “I understand why you like him, though. He’s like your twin flame.”

Richie heart does a stupid somersault in his chest, and he has to look away from her to grin, “He makes me feel like an insane person. Sometimes I look at him and I just want to scream with how much I want him. It’s getting stupid.”

“I think it’s nice.” Bev says, getting back down into bed and staring up at him, “To be so in love with a person that they make you feel like you could die from it. That’s what being alive is about.”

Richie shuts the window and gets back under the duvet, and wonders for a moment if she’s referring to someone when she says that, “I don’t like it. And I don’t want him to hate me.”

Beverly frowns, “Why would he hate you?”

Richie frowns, feeling silly and scared and so young. He thinks about Eddie’s skin against his, late afternoons in the clubhouse, pressed together in the hammock, legs tangled together. The way Eddie’s eyes look like pure gold when they reflect the sun. Eddie’s sharp knees and pointy elbows. The freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, like tiny constellations, that Richie would like to spend hours studying. The way he will glance over at Richie after telling a joke, as if to check that Richie found it funny; as if that’s all that matters. He thinks about jumping from the Quarry, Eddie’s little yells of excitement right before they hit the water together. Sitting in class, desks right next to each other, passing notes back and forth until Mrs. Douglas yells at them. Thinks about climbing up the tree in the Kaspbrak’s garden, knocking on Eddie’s bedroom window after his mom’s gone to bed, crawling in and onto the bed, Eddie’s scheming little grin. Thinks about Eddie spending weeks thinking Richie hated him, punching Richie in the face for being cruel, the pleased little smile on his face afterwards.

“It’s not that I can’t handle that he doesn’t feel the same for me as I feel for him. It’s more. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to handle it if he _knew_ and, I don’t know, felt uncomfortable with it. If he shied away from my touches, flinched at my jokes, stopped wanting to be alone with me. Part of me thinks that if he never knows, I can live out my life in this little fantasy where he still lets me touch him.”

“Do you really think Eddie would ever do that?”

“I don’t know. You know how he is Bev. His mom has probably made him think homosexuality is some sort of deadly decease. He spent all summer of ’89 ranting about fucking AIDS statistics and possible ways to be infected… It wasn’t exactly motivating. I can’t fucking stand the thought of telling him and ruining our friendship.”

“I think you’re not giving him enough credit for being a decent guy. We’re talking about the guy who, against his abusive mother’s wishes, befriended the fat kid, and the black kid, and the… Whore. He might be a bit damaged from a childhood with her, but he’s not cruel, or prejudiced.” Bev says, rolling onto her side to look at him.

He sighs, knowing she’s probably right to some degree, “I’m really tired, Bev. I don’t think I want to talk more about this tonight.”

She nods in his peripheral vision, laying back down on her back, “Ok, but I have one last thing to say.”

He chuckles, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“I don’t know how much this’ll help. But I need you to know that it wouldn’t have mattered if you never told us, or if you died that summer. We know you. You might not believe that, because you think that you’re hiding this huge part of yourself. But we know you. We know your heart. Your kindness. Your wit. Your warmth. Your friendship. That’s all that make you, _you_. It’s all that matters, in the end. It’s not all the different things that make up your social identity that matters, to the people who love you; it’s your essence.”

Richie glances over at her, tears prickling in his eyes, and he reaches for her hand again, not knowing how to show her the dept of his gratitude, “Thank you, Bev. I’ll go back in time and tell that stupid fucking clown that.”

Bev laughs fondly, “You do that.”

“But really. Thank you.” He whispers, afraid to start crying again if he even puts a bit of weight to his voice, “I think I want to tell Stan soon. I’ve known him my entire life – I want him to know.”

Beverly smiles, eyelids drooping slightly with sleepiness, “You should. If you need me to be there when you do, I will.”

“Nice.” He smiles, closing his eyes, “Goodnight, Bev.”

“Goodnight, Richie.”

**When I sing, you sing harmonies.**

**December of ‘91**

“Fucking hell, why is this so hard?” Richie groans, pulling out a shirt from the rack and staring it with disgusted interest.

“Why are you being weird?” Stan sighs, standing next to him with his hands in his pocket. He looks exasperated, and a bit amused. They’ve circled the store three times, and Richie still hasn’t found anything he thinks he can give to Eddie for Christmas without being blatantly obvious. The mug with a Shakespeare quote on it seems to be screaming _I love you please be my boyfriend_ , and the t-shirt in his hand with a picture of Boba Fett seems to be very obviously saying oh _my god I am so in love with you_. He frowns at it and hangs it back, much to Stan’s annoyance. It’s the third week of December, Hanukkah ended a few days ago, and Richie’s desperate to get his Christmas shopping over with before the Losers all go off to visit family for Christmas.

“This gets harder every single year.” Richie says, turning on his heel and walking over to the books in the corner, hoping to see something that catches his eye, “Why does he keep changing his interests?”

“You mean why is he growing up?” Stan asks, leaning against one of the bookshelves, flipping through a comic book.

Richie pulls out a book on the benefits of vegetarianism, that he thinks might be perfect for Bev, “Yes. He should stop. It would make things a hundred times easier for me.”

Stan huffs, “I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this. It’s Eddie. He’ll be happy with a six-pack of white tennis socks.”

Richie tries very hard not to think about Eddie in his fucking red shorts and tennis socks, legs long and tan, “I can’t give him socks for Christmas, what the fuck? I want to give him something good. It’s _Eddie_.” He says, as if that means anything to Stan.

“Yeah.” Stan says, and Richie glances as him to find him staring back with fond amusement clear on his face, “This is why I use my Jewish card every year. You lot are too hard to shop for. Too opinionated and brutally honest.”

Richie frowns, “You get us all gift for Hanukkah and Rosh Hashana. And Passover!”

“Yeah, but I give the same stuff every year.” Stan argues, “It’s easy. Some chocolate coins, a dreidel and a comic each. And my mom does the shopping.”

“That’s so unfair.” Richie huffs, “My mom forces me to write all my own blessing cards every year. And we have a huge family, so it takes me fucking ages.”

“Plus, you’re shit at it. Last Passover mine just said, _you didn’t die last year, try not to break the streak this year_.”

“Considering all the facts, I feel like that was a good one.”

Stan grins, widely, in a way he rarely lets himself, “I suppose. Why don’t you just give Eddie one of your awe-inspiring cards?”

Richie huffs and puts the book back on the shelf, grabbing the newest edition of the Transformers comic, “Fuck off.”

“Richie…” Stan says, and his tone is very different than anything Richie has ever heard, and it makes his blood freeze over, and when he looks at Stan he looks serious, “You want to talk about things?”

Richie’s mouth feels dry, “What things?”

Stan waves at him, “Why you’re being all… Considerate and thoughtful. You bought Mike one singular fucking pencil.”

“It seemed like a good pencil…” Richie croaks, “Everyone needs a good pencil.”

“A single one?” Stan raises a brow in a very impressive arch, and Richie feels naked, in the way he always does when Stan looks at him like this. Like he can read all of Richie’s secrets from the look on his face. Sometimes he wants to go back in time to tell three-year-old Richie to run for his life.

“What are you saying?” Richie says, squaring his shoulders and gripping the comic hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

“I’m not saying anything.” Stan shrugs, “I’m just asking. Why are you being all anal about this?”

Richie sighs, and thinks back to his conversation with Bev, “I just. Want it to be good. Eddie doesn’t like the holidays. He’s going to Haven to spend it with his shitty aunts, who are just like his mom. His mom times four, can you fucking imagine? I want to give him something to make it just a tiny bit more tolerable.”

Stan raises a judgemental eyebrow but doesn’t look up from the comic in his hands, “I don’t think I want to imagine that.” He huffs, “It’s nice of you to care, but you’ve known Eddie for like what, almost ten years now? Shouldn’t be this hard for you to find him a present, like you do every year, might I add. What’s changed?”

Richie stares at him in horrified comprehension at the pointed tone Stan’s using, “Uhm.”

Stan looks up, eyes shockingly kind, “Don’t worry about it, Richie. Eddie cares for you just as you care for him. He’ll be happy with anything you pick out for him, because it’s going to be something you looked at and thought, _oh, Eddie’s going to like this._ ”

Richie frowns, feeling very exposed, mind reeling at the implications behind Stan’s words, “Sure.” He coughs, wanting to bang his forehead against the shelf next to him, “Are you… Do you-”

“Richie, I’m not trying to force your hand here.” Stan sighs, smiling slightly, “I’m just asking you to calm down about the whole gift thing.”

“Force my hand… You _do_ know something, don’t you? Have you talked to Bev?”

Stan rolls his eyes, “First of all, I think you overestimate how much I talk to Beverly one-on-one. Second, it’s pretty stupid of you to insinuate that she would expose anything you’ve told her in confidence to anyone else. Third, you and I have been friends since before we could form coherent sentences. I know you.”

“Yeah, I know. But… I haven’t. I’m bad at being honest.” Richie says, staring down at his shoes. There’s the start of a hole near his big toe on the left shoe, and his soles are worn down. His heart is hammering in his chest. He knows he told Beverly he wanted to tell Stan, but what he hadn’t counted on was having the conversation in the middle of a busy convenient store.

“I’ve always been good at seeing through your lies, so it has never mattered. I speak fluent Richie, remember?” Stan shrugs, placing the comic back on the rack, and crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m just saying that I know why you’re being so nit-picky this year, and that I don’t think you need to worry as much.”

Richie gapes at him, “What does that even mean dude?”

“I’m not going to say it before you say it.”

“Say what?” Richie hisses, “I haven’t said anything! You’re the one who’s being all ominous!”

“That it matters more to you what you get for Eddie than any of the other Losers. That Eddie’s different, to you.”

Richie gapes, “I mean. Uh.” He stutters, trying desperately to grasp a single coherent thought in his mind that isn’t just screaming, “Yeah.”

Stan nods, “No worries. I’ve known since the first day you introduced me to Eddie back in second grade.”

Richie’s brain lags for a moment, “You’ve… Known?”

“I’m not going to spell it out for you. Just… Know that I know, and that I think it’s very sweet how you’re trying to be all thoughtful with his present.” Stan says, like he’s speaking to a child, and Richie wrinkles his nose at his tone.

“No, dude, I think I need you to spell it out for me, just to know we’re on the same page here.” Richie groans, “Whatever the fuck you’re saying right now could quite literally mean anything.”

“Richie. I want you to tell me yourself, if you’re ready. If not, we’ll let this go, and we’ll talk about it at another time. It isn't my place to tell you what to tell me.”

Richie stares down at the floor, dirty white tiles, and tries to wrap his mind around the fact that all his friends might now, in some way, how he feels, but that they’re all good enough people to pretend it doesn’t matter. Both Beverly and Stan had wanted him to tell them when he was ready for it, didn’t want to push, didn’t want to put words in his mouth. And he’s so incredibly grateful, but it also fucking sucks because couldn’t someone else do this for him? Why did he have to experience all these feelings, all the fear and dread and overwhelming love, and also have to be the one to explain it to people? He glances up at Stan’s face then and sees nothing but unfiltered love in his expression. Mouth in a tight little smile, eyes bright and fond. Richie loves him, and suspects there might be an alternative universe where Stan’s the one he’s in love with. Sharp witted and smart, gentle and rebellious, put together tightly in a way Richie never was. They’re like two sides of the same coin, him and Stan. Soulmates in a way Richie was never explained was even possible.

He thinks about Eddie. About his spitfire mouth, his freckled skin, his fanny pack and red running shorts, his long skinny legs; made to run and run, and kick clowns in the face.

“I’m in love with Eddie.” He says, before he can chicken out, and then feels dread climb up his throat and for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to throw up, but then Stan walks over and places a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“Alright.” Stan says, “That’s great. Thanks for telling me that, Richie.”

And that is it.

“Right.” Richie coughs, feeling hot all over and like he might start crying any second, “Please help me find him a goddamn Christmas present.”

Stan grins, “Sure thing. He’s been really into Oscar Wilde this year, ever since we read _the Importance of Being Ernest_ in English class. Get him something by him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter:  
> Hate crime implication for the May part, nothing explicit, but it's implied.  
> Underaged drinking.  
> Internalized homophobia.  
> Substance abuse - just weed for this chapter, but there's a mention of cocaine in the July part, and a quick mention of laced weed in the June part.  
> Reference to Bowers saying the f-slur.  
> Mention of molestation in the July chapter, but it's only a brief comment by Beverly.  
> If there's anything specific you wish for me to put a TW for in the next update, please send me a dm on twitter @richietozieer  
> I also started a social media AU over at @kissedteacherau if you want to give it a read! <333


	4. 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is familiar with the overwhelming sense of gratefulness he feels whenever he is reminded of the fact that Eddie is alive and bright and strong. He sometimes feels drunk with it, and it’s enough. It’s enough to love him and know that he’s alive. How could he possibly ask for more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter this time, as the next one is going to be very long! I'm going to take my time writing it, as I'm working on a few other fics at the same time!  
> Hope you enjoy this nonetheless.

**The spark in your eyes, The look on your face.**

**January of ‘92**

The holidays pass by in the blink of an eye. Derry sees the worst snowstorm in decades, and the Tozier’s spend the last week of Christmas break cooped up in a cabin they’ve been renting for years up in Buck Hill, Bangor. They barely make it back to Derry in time for school to start up again due to an unfortunate incident where the front door of the cabin gets snowed shut and they have to climb out the kitchen window to get to the car. The drive back to town is calm and slow going because of the icy roads, and Richie and Chris play Tetris on the Gameboy Richie got as a Hanukkah present from his parents. 

“When are you going back to Chicago?” He asks her as they turn into the driveway outside their house later that afternoon. The snow has slowed down, and the street is empty and peaceful, twinkling with string-lights in trees and wrapped around fences, looking like the picturesque version of a suburban neighbourhood during Christmas that Richie always dreamed off when he was eight and sad about not having the same connection to Christmas as everyone else in his class. The Jewish community in Derry isn’t too small, but with very few kids Richie’s age who could share the understanding of belonging to a religion different from the majority of Derry’s habitants.

“Tomorrow around noon. Went is going to drive me to the airport while you’re at school.” She says, unbuckling her seatbelt and grabbing her bag from the floor in front of her.

He unbuckles his own seatbelt, frowning, “I miss you when you’re away. And I’m fucking jealous. You get to spend your year in the city while I have to stick around in this shithole for who knows how much longer.”

Their mom turns from where she’s rummaging through the glovebox in the front to frown at him, “Language.” She says, but her tone is humorous.

“You know I would take you with me in a heartbeat, if I didn’t think mom would report me for kidnapping and the fact that I know you would want to bring all your little friends with us.” Chris grins, winking at him, “You’ll just have to be brave and suck it up for a few more years, like I did.”

Richie almost wants to laugh. Between being a repressed gay in a homophobic small town and the goddamn clown, he has never been anything but brave.

“Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.” He mumbles, opening the door out into the snow and then almost slips and eats shit on his way up the path to the front door.

He tracks through town later that evening, wearing an idiotic number of layers because his mom insisted. All the shops are closed for the night, and town feels like a dark empty wasteland. The tip of his nose stings with cold, and he stuffs his gloved hands deeper into his pockets to try to block out the biting wind. He thinks about all the things Derry has ever given him, six of them to be exact, and tries to block out all the things it’s taken away from him. He makes up his mind on his walk back home, and turns in the other direction of his house by the roundabout in the neighbourhood, and makes his way into Eddie’s backyard, knowing the way better than he knows the back of his own hand. He slowly climbs up the tree that leans against the back of the house, and grins when he sees Eddie on his bed, reading a comic in the low light of his bedside lamp. He’s wearing a soft red sweater with a high neck, and flannel pyjama pants, and Richie spends an embarrassingly long moment taking him all in, in his soft, late-night rumpled glory. He raps his knuckles again the glass as softly as he can muster, as to not scare Eddie too bad.

Eddie still jumps and snaps his head to the side, anxious, furrowed, brows relaxing immediately as Richie waves at him. He leans over to open the window all the way, and presses his mouth into a hard line, “Richie, what the fuck are you doing out there?”

Richie lets out an awkward laugh, and kind of wants to faceplant into the snow two stories below to hide the embarrassed blush that creep up his neck, “I can leave if you don’t want to hang out?” He squeaks, feeling stupid and cold and so in love he can barely stand it.

Eddie frowns, looking genuinely confused, “Did I say that? Come in before you give yourself a frost bite. It’s fucking freezing.”

“Oh.” Richie gasps, and then climbs in through the open window, making sure to clumsily take his shoes off before he gets down into the bed, and places them in the bathroom that connects to Eddie’s room, hanging up his winter coat in the shower and placing his hat and gloves in the sink, he knows the routine by now, before making his way back into the room. It’s warm and nice-smelling, some sort of holiday themed scented candle burning away on the desk, lamp light low and intimate, and he kind of wants to stay standing as far away from Eddie as possible so he doesn’t do something stupid, like press Eddie down onto the bed and kiss every inch of him he can reach.

Eddie sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest like he too is fighting against some internal turmoil, and Richie lets his mind imagine things that will have him staying up all night with butterflies in his stomach, “How was your vacation?” Eddie asks, voice kind of hoarse.

Richie tries not to look too affected by it, and walks over to plop himself down on Eddie’s bed, “It was fine. Cold and a bit boring. I don’t think I ever want to play chess ever again, after this week. Went is relentless and I have the worst complex about winning everything, so you can imagine how that went.”

Eddie chuckles, leaning back on his elbows next to Richie, “No, you? Winner instinct? I had no idea!”

Richie reaches over and pushes his shoulder in a way that is way too revealing, “Fuck off. You’re notorious for cheating at games because you refuse to lose.” He laughs to cover up how raw he feels, “What about you? Did you get anything nice? How were the aunts?”

Eddie groans, dropping down onto his back and closing his eyes, and Richie lets himself stare at him, properly, in a way he usually saves for when no one else is around and Eddie isn’t paying him any attention. The skin of his eyelids are a few shades darker than the rest of his face, eyelashes long and brushing against the soft freckle-kissed skin under his eyes, and Richie wants to rub his thumbs over his freckles and kiss both his eyelids. Eddie’s mouth is a bit chapped, and stained red from something, and Richie stomach burns with lust. He feels too large for his own skin, only fifteen and so uncomfortable with how hot his desire burns for another boy. He thinks about summer of ‘89, all of Eddie’s AIDS rants, the death-toll rising rapidly, the kids at the arcade whispering slurs after him; about growing up in a tiny backwaters town that tried to teach him that boys should not love other boys in the way Richie loves Eddie.

“It was fine. As fine as it could be.” He says, and Richie’s brain lags for a moment where he wonders what they’re even talking about, “I got some nice socks, I suppose. The aunts were just as drunk and overbearing as always.”

Richie hums, still staring at the stark freckle on Eddie’s left eyelid.

“I wish I could have gone to Bangor with you.” Eddie says, opening one eye to look at him, and Richie snaps his gaze away, feeling like he was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Maybe next year.” Richie says, sounding wrecked. He imagines him and Eddie sitting by the wood burner as they’ve just come in from playing in the snow outside, the soft Persian rug under them, Eddie’s nose and cheeks red from the biting chill, snow still melting in his hair. And he thinks that if he ever has to see that image in real life, he’ll most likely have to be given CPR due to his heart giving in. Or he might ruin everything by pushing him over and kissing him right there on the floor, in front of his entire family.

Eddie smiles at him in his peripheral vision, “Richie… I-” He says, then stops, and when Richie turns to look at him again, he looks desperate and confused, and Richie wants to give him anything. Everything.

“Yeah?” Richie encourages, feeling his heart in his throat, and tries very hard to swallow it back down so he won’t have to run to the bathroom and throw it up.

“Is it fucked up if I miss that summer?”

Richie blinks at him, trying to decipher what exactly that means, “I mean, yeah, a little.”

Eddie huffs, looking troubled, “Obviously not the whole. Clown thing. Or Bowers, or any of the other stuff that tried to kill us. But… I don’t know. You all. Us. The Losers.”

“Why would you miss us? We’re still friends.” Richie says, and fights the urge to lean over and run his fingers over Eddie’s pinched face.

“I know we are.” Eddie snaps, then looks a bit apologetic, “I don’t know. I just miss the feeling of the first weeks of that summer, when we didn’t understand how bad things were about to get. I miss the blissful ignorance of being thirteen and not yet quite traumatized. When we were just kids hanging out with friends.”

Richie hums and tries to understand. When they were thirteen Richie wasn’t even honest with himself about being gay, and Eddie had already been emotionally abused by his mother for years, so he’s not quite sure Eddie even knows what he’s talking about when he says they weren’t yet traumatized, “I guess.”

Eddie looks a bit pained, “I just… I know we’ll all always be friends, but we’re all growing up, and I’m scared we’re gonna grow apart. I miss being thirteen and being sure of things.”

Richie laughs, “I don’t think I was sure of anything when we were thirteen.” He admits, in a burst of sincerity that catches him a bit off guard, the implications of it so embarrassingly obvious to him, “I was just ignorant, I think. And I think I most definitely got brain damage from heatstroke that summer. Nothing I said or thought back then can ever be used against me, actually.”

“Like,  _ the list is longer than my wang?  _ Because none of us believed you, heatstroke or not.”

“You want me to prove it to you?” Richie challenges, feeling sick to his stomach, and pretends to unbuckle his belt, just to see the way Eddie’s face goes beet red. He leans over and slaps Richie hands away from his belt buckle, and Richie laughs loudly to cover up the way he wants to smash his face into Eddie’s. Both violently and romantically.

Eddie shushes him in a way that is entirely familiar, all pinched features and furious eyes, “Shut up, asshole. Do you want my mom to wake up and throw you out?”

Richie calms down and clamps his mouth shut, shaking his head.

“Just forget I said anything.” Eddie sighs, leaning back down and closing his eyes again, and Richie goes right back to staring at him like some love-struck creep.

“No, I know what you mean, I guess. I suppose I more miss the part of my life that wasn’t plagued by that damn clown.” Richie says, feeling like he should be trying to relieve Eddie’s turmoil instead of egging him on, “And we’ll never grow apart, Eds. You’re never going to lose me, or the other Losers.”

Eddie frowns, but stays laying on his back with his eyes closed, “I almost did. Lose you… That is.”

For a moment, Richie thinks he’s talking about the overdose, but then remembers no one but Chris and Beverly knows about that, and realizes he’s probably talking about the first few months of the year where Richie was running away from everything that reminded him of his inner turmoil, the summer of ‘89, and Eddie.

“You wouldn’t have.” He says, then has no idea what that even means, “I mean. I’m sorry for being a piece of shit. I’ll probably never not be one. I just… You wouldn’t have lost me, no matter how long I spent spiralling and avoiding you guys.”

“I sure hope you’re not intending on doing that again?” Eddie groans, opening his eyes to stare at him with a hard look that makes Richie’s skin crawl.

Richie snorts, “I have never planned for anything in my entire life.” He says, and then, “No, I’m not.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I would have been able to deal with that again. Those months fucking sucked.”

Richie frowns, feeling like the worst person in the entire world for ever hurting Eddie, “I’m sorry.” He says, and then thinks really hard about everything Eddie has said since he got here, “If it happened again, are you saying I would lose you?”

Eddie stares at him with wide, glossy eyes, irises warm and dark in the low light, and Richie almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Eddie’s warm fingers against his own. Eddie doesn’t move his hand for a few long moments, and then he encloses his fingers around Richie’s palm, squeezing slightly. Richie has to force himself to breath, because Eddie’s fingers are slender and warm against his own sweaty skin, and he hopes Eddie can’t feel how bad he’s shaking with nerves and love. Wonders if he can feel Richie’s pulse through his fingertips or hear his thundering heartbeat in the quiet of the room.

“No.” Eddie says, “You’re my best friend. I didn’t survive an intergalactic killer clown with you by my side just to lose you over stupid stuff like rumours and drugs and trauma.”

Richie scoffs, “Stupid stuff.”

“Fuck off, asshole.”

Richie thinks about that. Thinks about the words  _ best friend _ , and how much he wishes that was enough for him. Remembers being ten and finding any excuse to touch Eddie, by wrestling or poking or pushing or ruffling his hair. Remembers being eleven and climbing up the tree to Eddie’s window for the first time, the week Eddie got grounded for doing tricks on his bike in the main street. Remembers being twelve and being elated that Eddie had twisted his ankle during a field trip, because that meant Richie could convince him to get on the back of his bike, arms pressed firmly against his stomach, Eddie’s hot huffs of breath in the back of his neck. Remembers being thirteen and grabbing ahold of Eddie’s face in the house on Neibolt street, forcing him to look at Richie, screaming  _ Eddie look at me _ as the clown made its way towards them with all intentions to kill. He thinks about all the times he’s considered just going  _ fuck it _ and giving in to whatever stupidly sappy impulse his brain had provided him with in that moment. Right now, laying in Eddie’s bed, holding his hand and hearing him say  _ best friend _ , he feels his own heart deflate a bit, with the reality of things. Eddie will never be his, in the way he wants so bad it makes him physically ill.

They will be  _ best friends _ for a few more years, until they leave for college, and maybe they will all go to New York together like they talked about last summer, or they’ll move to completely different states. They will grow apart then, in the way childhood friends do over time, and Richie will spent his twenties fucking every man he comes across that remind him in the slightest of Eddie and trying really hard to shake off the memory of Eddie holding his hand right now. He will eventually get to a place where looking at or thinking about Eddie doesn’t make him feel like he’s going to pass out, and the memory of his childhood love will be just that, and he’ll go to Eddie’s wedding, maybe as his best man, and he’ll be ok. Maybe never truly happy or content with anything life has given him, and always chasing the feeling of Eddie’s skin against his, but ok.

He squeezes Eddie’s hand right back, shutting his own eyes against the tears that are threatening to build up, “You’re my best friend too, Eds.”

“Good.” Eddie huffs, “I worry sometimes.”

Richie turns his head to look at him, cringing slightly at how close they are right now. He can feel the warm huffs of Eddie’s breath on his face, can smell his shampoo and see every freckle on his cheeks. “What are you worried about?”

Eddie frowns, looking like he regrets ever opening his mouth, “Just. About losing you. I read somewhere that trauma can cause memory loss, and I guess I’m just scared that we might forget things when we move away from Derry. When we aren’t reminded of it every single waking second.”

Richie thinks about that, his own anxieties bubbling right under his skin, the missing poster,  _ he is survived by nobody and will not be missed _ , “As if you could ever forget me. I’ve imprinted on you like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant to mark his territory. Or like a farmer branding his cattle. Baby, I’m burrowed into your skin.”

“Fuck off. You’re so fucking annoying. I’m trying to be sincere here!” Eddie snaps, ripping his hand away and Richie feels like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over his head. His hand feels cold and empty.

“Come on, Eds. You know I don’t do sincerity.” He laughs, “I hear you, though. I’m sorry you’re worried. But you have nothing to worry about.” He grits his teeth together, thinking about Went ranting to him about grinding his teeth, and stares at the wall beyond Eddie’s tense shoulder, “I took one look at you when we were six and I though, that little dude sure is funny, I want to be his friend forever. And I’m not planning on disappointing little Richie by letting you out of my life.”

Eddie’s smile is almost overwhelming, in that way that it’s pure and shy and genuine, and Richie’s glad he’s only seeing it in his peripheral vision, because witnessing it head-on might actually kill him.

“Hmm. I refuse to believe six-year-old Richie had such profound thoughts.” Eddie grins, knocking his knuckles against Richie’s in a way that seems to be intended as joking and platonic, but still knocks the wind out of Richie’s lungs and stings his skin slightly.

“Oh, tiny Richie had lots of profound thoughts, and then you almost concussed me with that seesaw when we were eight and I lost the ability to think about anything besides your mom’s huge-”

Eddie’s furious little pout makes Richie bark out a laugh, which earns him a slap across the head, “Sorry!” He squeaks, rolling away from Eddie’s reach. This side of the bed, cold and as far away from Eddie as possible, feels safer. More room for errors, and less room for him to lean in and kiss Eddie on the nose.

“Fuck you.” Eddie huffs, rolling onto his back again, “Thank you though. I know you were trying to be sincere.”

“Stan says my lack of sincerity and compassion are my least becoming personality traits.”

Eddie glances over at him, frowning, “Dude. You’re compassionate?”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I seem to remember you sobbing down in the sewers when Stan got hurt, and then again when Bill found Georgie’s coat.”

Richie grimaces, turning his head to stare up at the dark ceiling, trying desperately to not let the now familiar visions of greywater, blood and tears to flash in his mind, “Oh, fuck off. Don’t mention all of that, we were having a nice moment.”

“Oh.” Eddie says, voice tiny, “I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Eds. Just… I don’t want to think about that right now.”

Eddie hums, looking a bit dishevelled, “It’s getting quite late.”

Richie turns to stare out at the pitch darkness outside, and nods his head, trying not to feel so disappointed, “Yeah, you’re right. I should probably head home.”

Eddie sits up, turning his head to look at Richie over his shoulder, a clear blush on his cheeks, “Or… I mean, it’s snowing pretty bad out there.”

Richie sits up too, staring in miscomprehension at him, “And?”

Eddie huffs, looking away to stare determinedly at his bedroom door, lips pressed together into a hard line, “Maybe you should just stay.”

“But we have school tomorrow.” Richie says, feeling like someone’s pulled the rug right out from underneath his feet, or like he’s floating around in outer space, nothing to anchor him to the spaceship. His hands are cold and shaking in his lap.

“You could leave early in the morning. Make it back home before your parents even realise that you’re missing from your bed.”

Richie gapes at him, a fish out of waters, trying to understand what the hell is happening right now, “I suppose.” He croaks.

Eddie sighs, standing up completely and putting his hands on his hips, looking very annoyed and flushed, “Or not. I’m not gonna force you, dude. I just thought. You know, it’s the smartest option. With the weather and all.”

Richie decides not to comment on the fact that it’s only a five-minute walk between their houses, and that he already walked for an hour outside earlier, “No. Eddie, I just. Yeah, sure. I’ll stay over, thank you.”

Eddie’s tenseness deflates, his hands dropping from his hips to swing at his side, like it surprises him that Richie has agreed, “Oh. Ok.” He breathes, “I’m going to go to the linen closet and get some clean sheets then.”

Richie stares at the bed in confusion, “Uh, the bed is already made?”

“I won’t make you sleep in a bed I’ve already slept in for days.” Eddie huffs, as if that’s the stupidest suggestion he’s ever heard, “Don’t argue with me.”

Richie throws his hands up in mock surrender, “Whatever will please you, Spaghetti. I just don’t mind as much as you seem to think I should.”

“Well, I do.” Eddie says, and then turns on his heel and leaves the room, closing the door after himself.

Richie stares after him, frozen in place with confusion and utterly overwhelming horror. What the fuck is happening? It’s not like he and Eddie hasn’t had sleepovers before, far from it. Eddie used to sleep over almost every weekend the first few years they were friends, before his dad died and his mom became an overbearing maniac with Munchausen by Proxy. The Losers have sleepovers every now and then, in the Denbrough’s TV room or the attic at Mike’s family’s farmhouse. But they’re fifteen, and Eddie and Richie hasn’t slept in the same bed since they were eleven, before Richie understood what the burning in his stomach meant. God, he can’t even sit next to Eddie these days without feeling like an utter creep about how much he wants to reach out and take his hand, how is he going to survive several hours pressed against him in Eddie’s tiny fucking bed, sharing a blanket?

Richie almost debates grabbing his clothes and making a run for it, but then Eddie’s back, thrusting a sheet in his direction, “You do the sheets and I’ll change the covers.”

Richie stands up, saluting Eddie dumbly, “Yes, sir.” His voice sound tinny, even to his own ears. He gets to work on stripping the current sheets off the bed, then straddles the mattress and tries desperately to fit the new sheets onto all corners in a way that is up to Kaspbrakian standards. Crisp edges and all that.

“You good over there?” Eddie huffs a small laugh, and when Richie turns around to glance at him over his shoulder, Eddie looks soft and affectionate, and it makes Richie’s entire body burn.

“Uh, yes.” He coughs, finally getting the last corner stay in place, and then he doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he just stays there on all fours, staring down onto the bed.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and then you can go in after me.” Eddie says, voice thick with something Richie can’t quite place.

Richie hums, sitting back onto his heels, “Sure thing, Eds. I’ll just… Undress then.” Oh, what the fuck? Why did he fucking phrase it like that? Eddie sends him one last slightly pained look and heads for the bathroom, locking the door after himself.

Richie gets up from the bed and starts pacing the room, pulling at his hair. He walks back and forth in the tiny space a few times, and then rips off his sweater and shirt in some derange urgency to just get this fucking over with. If Richie was a girl, or heterosexual, and the person he liked asked him to sleep over, he suspects he would be filled with ecstasy instead of absolute dread, but Richie wasn’t born into an easy life. He neatly folds his clothes and lays them on the desk chair, so Eddie won’t have an aneurism over the mess, then sits down on the edge of the bed in only his jeans.

He’s so wrapped up in his own internal screaming, he barely notices when Eddie comes back from the bathroom, holding the door open for him. Once inside, he locks the door and leans heavily on the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. A pale, slightly panicked, face stares back at him, all sharp features and glasses and dark curls falling into wide brown eyes. His bare chest is wide and skinny, collarbones and ribs poking out under pale skin scattered with dark moles, still in that early stage of adolescent where his body is all awkward angles, his limbs growing rapidly while the rest of his body desperately tries to catch up. He tries to relax his features into something a bit calmer, feeling like Eddie will be able to read all his secrets on his face if he doesn’t. Splashing his face with some cold water, he leans his forehead against the cold porcelain of the sink, breathing deeply. He desperately wishes he could call Bev right now. She wouldn’t fucking believe this shit.

When he steps back into the bedroom after five minutes of sitting on the hard tiles with his head between his knees, Eddie has changed into pyjama shorts and a t-shirt, hair rumbled from changing, sitting on the edge of the bed. His arms are pale, in the way Eddie only gets when there’s no sunlight for a few months, but they are still covered in warm freckles. His knees are sharp and slightly red, and Richie feels his mouth go dry.

“Which side?” Eddie asks over a yawn. Richie stares at him helplessly, wanting to leap at him and tackle him onto the bed.

“Uh, window?” He says, without even having a real opinion on it, because he knows Eddie likes to sleep closest to the door anyways, but will still throw a fuss over it if Richie says he doesn’t care.

“Oh, perfect.” Eddie smiles softly, standing up from the bed, “You get in first then.”

Richie shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “Right.”

“Are you going to sleep with your jeans on?”

He stares down at his own legs, and thinks, fuck yeah, I am. But then, “No. I suppose not.”

“Get on with it then, I’m fucking tired.” Eddie huffs, leaning against his closet door. He looks all soft and sleepy, and Richie wants to curl up on the floor and weep with how painfully his heart is beating in his chest at the sight of him.

Richie grits his teeth together, and unbuckles his belt, feeling Eddie’s eyes on him the entire way. When the pants are off, he folds them neatly and puts them on top of his other clothes, then feels awfully exposed, and dives into the bed and under the covers before Eddie’s gaze on him starts to feel like a laser beam.

Eddie scoffs and gets into bed, so close to Richie he can feel the heat of Eddie’s skin, but not so close that they’re touching, “If you kick me in your sleep, or snore, I will push you out the window.” Eddie yawns, rolling onto his side, facing away from Richie.

Richie lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, “Way to make your guest feel comfortable, Eds.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are.” Richie huffs, “Well, I’ll try my best, but usually when I’m sleeping, my mind isn’t awake to stop me from doing stuff, so…”

“Just don’t snore!” Eddie laughs, kicking his foot back against the side of Richie’s knee, knocking the breath right out of Richie’s lungs. Jesus Christ.

“Uhu.” Richie mutters, not trusting his own vocal cords.

“Good night, Richie.” Eddie mumbles after a few beats, sounding half-way asleep. Richie’s heart does something very complicated and painful in his chest, and he wants, with every single bit of him, to reach over and run his fingers softly down Eddie’s spine. To push his hands up under Eddie’s shirt and grip his hipbone tightly, and then never let go. He wants to inch closer to him, press his bare chest flush to Eddie’s back, tangle their legs together and tuck Eddie’s head under his chin. Wrap himself around Eddie like a koala bear and lay there for as long as he breathes.

“Night night, Spaghetti.” Richie says, voice incredibly tender and soft.

Richie dreams. Nothing coherent. Blurry faces, non-distinctive landscapes, hushed voices, words he can’t catch. Himself, older, his parents age, standing on a stage, blinded by bright white lights, laughter booming all around him. Bev’s face, older too, caked in blood, tears streaming down her face as she looks down at him. A cavern, wide and dark, a voice taunting him. It’s all just flashes of images, nothing lasting long enough for him to understand the meaning of. And then, Eddie’s face, grown-up and sharp, jawline crude and eyes wide, staring down at him, utter agonizing pain on his face. Richie wakes up gasping for breath, feeling sweaty and afraid. For a moment, he’s disoriented, blearily taking in his surroundings. He shifts in the unfamiliar bed, finding that he’s sort of cradling something in his arms, and then almost passes out when his eyes adjust to the darkness and he looks at Eddie’s body next to him, tucked neatly under Richie’s chin, back pressed against his chest. Jesus Christ. Richie’s arm is slung over Eddie’s waist, his hand gripping the arm Eddie is resting his head against, their legs entangled. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

He glances over to Eddie’s nightstand, where the clock is flashing the time in bright red numbers. It’s just past sunrise. The morning sun is warm and faint through the window, washing Eddie’s skin in a pinkish glow, making him look like he’s made of pure gold, and Richie wants to melt right into the mattress. It’s unfair. It’s all unfair. That Richie feels like this, and Eddie looks like that. He lets himself have a few more minutes of laying still next to him, breathing in Eddie’s scent, lavender and something fruity, relishing in the way his own arm is wrapped tightly over Eddie’s wrist, feeling his pulse just under his fingers. It’s nice. It’s always nice. After Neibolt and the sewers, after the summer Eddie almost died, Richie is familiar with the overwhelming sense of gratefulness he feels whenever he is reminded of the fact that Eddie is alive and bright and strong. He sometimes feels drunk with it, and it’s enough. It’s enough to love him and know that he’s alive. How could he possibly ask for more?

At six twenty am he untangles himself from Eddie slowly, trying his hardest not to wake him and have to deal with the fallout of Eddie realizing they’ve been practically holding each other all night as they slept. He sneaks out of bed, gets dressed in the bathroom, silently and quickly, grabbing his coat and hat and gloves, and then climbs back over Eddie’s sleeping body so he can climb out through the window and onto the sturdy branch outside. He takes one last look at him before closing the window behind him, at Eddie’s soft sleeping face, bright freckles and sunbathed skin, and it hurts a bit, to look at him like this. Soft and peaceful, out of reach and beautiful. Richie climbs down the tree and walks up the street with something untouchable and unbearable burning deep in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to put TWs for in this one.  
> Quick reference to the overdose from a previous chapter.  
> Canon related violence mentioned.  
> Implied internalized homophobia.  
> Mention of parent death, Sonia (Munchhausen by proxy mention)


End file.
